


Mr. Phillip Coulson, a Gentleman of Some Repute

by raiining



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, M/M, fear of child endangerment, inaccurate science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 19:30:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4637496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Phil Coulson, a gentleman by birth and a soldier by training, has devoted his life to assisting individuals with private matters that would best be handled quietly.  Phil enjoys the work, but his most recent assignment is about to become his most dangerous yet.  Phil does not know it, but his peaceful existence is about to change…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(A Science Fiction / Regency / Strike Team Delta AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Phillip Coulson, a Gentleman of Some Repute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ralkana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY RALKANA!! I bit and weaved and twisted some tropes around here — I hope the end result is something that makes you smile. Happy birthday, birthday twin :)
> 
> A warning for the scientists among us: I am not a physicist. I like watching science programs on TV, but that’s about the limit of my scientific rigor. DO NOT READ THIS EXPECTING ACCURACY. Also, while this is Regency, it is _Space Regency,_ and therefore I took a few liberties in that as well. 
> 
> With those warnings in mind, ENJOY! I hope you have fun!
> 
>  
> 
> MANY THANKS to my utterly FABULOUS beta team, of Orderlychaos and Desert_Neon. THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH!! These ladies are utterly invaluable and I adore them.

“Mr. Coulson! How wonderful of you to return my call,” Baroness Woo gushes, her measured aristocratic tones only slightly blurred by the transmission through hyperspace.

“It is my pleasure,” Phil Coulson assures her. It is noonish at Baroness Woo’s estate on the beautiful planet of Sedonia, but only just after seven in the morning aboard _The Lady Lola._ As such, Phil is dressed only in his morning gown, and is once again thankful that his equipment allows only audio transmissions.

“What can I do for you, Baroness?” Phil asks.

“Well, my dear Mr. Coulson, it is the smallest thing,” Baroness Woo begins, “but my cousin, the Lady Trent, has a xertium ring she would like to be rid of. I told her to throw it into the river and be done with it, but of course the dear would rather sell it. The problem is she would much rather her wife not find out about it. The ring was a gift from an old suitor, you see, and these things can be difficult.”

Phil keeps his smile from his voice. “They can indeed, Baroness. I would be happy to assist your cousin, the Lady Trent. On which planet is she currently residing?”

“That is just the thing,” Baroness Woo exclaims. “She and her wife live on Alora, and a lovely little bird told me you are on your way there as we speak.”

Phil glances at his nav computer. Sure enough, _The Lady Lola_ is just entering the Alorian system. “So I am, Baroness.”

“Excellent,” Baroness Woo sighs. “Thank you sincerely, Mr. Coulson.”

“I live to serve,” Phil assures her. “Where may I meet your cousin?”

“She will be hosting a ball at her estate tonight, local time,” Baroness Woo explains. “Lady Trent has added you to the guest list, at my suggestion. You may meet her there.”

Phil nods, even though she cannot see him. “Your recommendation is much appreciated.”

“Of course, Mr. Coulson,” Baroness Woo replies. “I will be forever indebted to you for your invaluable assistance regarding that one matter.” 

Phil smiles. The majority of his customers are people like Baroness Woo — decent citizens of wealth and privilege who have need of small jobs performed with the utmost discretion. Phil is careful to keep on the right side of the law — he is a former soldier of the Galactic Military, after all — but he admits to falling into the grey areas from time to time.

Baroness Woo’s particular problem had been once such instance, and this ring may be another. Rare jewels are _supposed_ to be carefully regulated, not sold on the Black Market, but Phil believes he can arrange a private transaction. He happens to know that Pepper Potts adores xertium, and he highly doubts Tony Stark has bought her a birthday present yet. 

“You are, once again, very welcome,” Phil assures the Baroness. 

She titters a little longer and they exchange pleasantries, and then Phil assures her of his regard and they sign off. He leans back in his pilot's chair and reaches for his caf, currently sitting in the warmer beside him. 

A ball, Phil thinks, taking a sip. Well. It has certainly been awhile since he attended one, but he has not entirely forgotten the steps. He is travelling to Alora to meet with Mr. Merik, a contact who keeps him in information and legitimate shipping goods, and an engineer aboard the _Alora’s Choice._ He should be able to complete those objectives well before he needs to return to _The Lady Lola_ and dress. It will be awkward to don his black tie without anyone to assist him, but this will not be the first time Phil has been forced to do so. 

Leaning forward, Phil checks the speed of his sublight engines. His navcomputer informs him they will arrive in orbit around Alora in forty-three minutes.

That should be more than enough time to wash up. Phil straightens, but before he can stand, the comm chimes again.

Phil cocks his head and then, recognizing the sender by the line of security code preceding the wave, smiles.

“Director Fury,” Phil greets, activating the comm. He leans back again in his chair. “Is it not near midnight at the S.H.I.E.L.D. base on Triskelion?”

He may not be able to see his best friend and sometimes employer, but Phil is willing to bet that Nick’s black, scarred face is grinning. “It is actually past midnight, but you know the Intelligence Community, Mr. Coulson.”

“Yes, yes, of course, you never sleep,” Phil finishes. “What may I do for you today?”

Nick grunts. Phil imagines him sitting alone in his giant office. “I heard you were on your way to Alora?”

Phil sighs. “Yes, I am. I know you disapprove of my investigation, but I simply want to—”

“My friend,” Director Fury interupts, “you are a private citizen, as you so often remind me, and may do as you wish. No, the reason I am calling has nothing to do with your little pet project. I have another matter I require your assistance with.”

Phil frowns, surprised. “Of course,” he says. “What it is?”

Nick sounds grim. “I have just received word that a person of interest to me will be on Alora this evening, local time. He will be attending a ball, at the—”

“Allow me to guess,” Phil interrupts. “At the Trent Estate?” Alora is a prosperous planet, but not a large one; the chances of there being more than one ball on any given night is small.

Nick huffs. “I trust you have an engagement there at present?”

“I may,” Phil hedges, unwilling to go into detail. He guarantees discretion for his clients, even from the galaxy’s leading intelligence officer. 

“Excellent, then I assume you have an invitation ready,” Nick goes on blithely. “It would be awkward for me to secure you one, and it could alert my quarry.”

Phil blinks. “What sort of game are you hunting?”

“A dangerous one,” Nick admits. “The man I am tracking goes by the name of Baron von Strucker. The title is legal, inherited through his mother’s side. He has been implicated in a number of heinous crimes, but,” Nick says, and then hesitates. “Well, there is no easy way to say this. His focus has most recently turned to the practice of genetic engineering.”

Phil takes a sip of caf to buy himself time. He does not like to think of Cal’brian, or the events he had witnessed there. He summons his driest tone. “I suppose the fact that it has been outlawed since the Great War is beneath his notice?” 

“So I assume,” Nick answers gruffly. “S.H.I.E.L.D. has been aware of his name and interest for some time, but it has been difficult for us to locate his laboratory. We know he has a number of people working with him, but their exact numbers, and location, have eluded us. I had been content to pursue this matter slowly, being thorough in our investigation, but a fact came to light yesterday that puts an unfortunate time pressure upon our efforts.”

Phil frowns. “What fact is that?”

“That he is using children in his experiments,” Nick informs him grimly, “and that, depending on the results of his efforts, he will terminate them at the conclusion of his experiment.”

Phil straightens in his chair, Cal’brian forgotten. “That is monstrous.”

“Indeed,” Nick agrees. “I have doubled our efforts, and have learned that Baron von Strucker will be attending the ball on Alora this evening, where he may or may not meet a person of interest to him. I would like you find the Baron. Follow him. My hope is that he will lead you to his secret base. I am sending a ship to assist you, but it is on Sed’on, and will take a standard day to reach you.”

“That is too long,” Phil agrees. “Of course I will help.”

Nick exhales. “Thank you, my friend. I will send you what information I can — I am afraid we know very little about von Strucker. He _should_ proceed directly from Alora to his secret base, for we have information that says they are waiting for his arrival, but if he travels elsewhere, you may be forced to follow. This mission may disrupt your schedule for the next several weeks.”

Phil waves that concern away. “I have no business at present that is particularly pressing.”

Nick’s frown is audible in his voice. “Do you not have an appointment with Engineer Okoro this afternoon?”

Phil scowls. “I do, as you so clearly know. I should conclude my investigation shortly afterward, though.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Nick says. 

“You simply wish to say ‘I told you so,’” Phil says with a faint smile. “Do not think I am unaware of this.”

“I wish nothing of the sort,” Nick protests. “Regardless, I am glad that I caught you to discuss von Strucker before you landed. It is fortunate that I did so. You know arranging these matters would be easier if you would agree to work for me full time.”

“Ah, but then you would have shut down my independent investigation, and I would not be entering the system of Alora, so conveniently placed to assist you,” Phil counters with a smile.

Nick chuckles, though it sounds tired. “No, I suppose you would not. Very well. Good hunting, Mr. Coulson, in this and in — well, you know my feelings on the subject.”

“I do,” Phil agrees. 

“Very well,” Nick sighs. “Be safe.”

Phil promises to do so. “And get some sleep, my friend,” he adds. 

Nick sounds amused. “I will try,” he promises. The comm chirps off.

Phil remains in his chair for a moment longer, holding his caf. Baron von Strucker. No, the title is not familiar to him. That is a good thing. _Genetic engineering,_ he thinks, and shudders. Had he learned of the practice he would have independently pursued it, even if Nick had not asked him to, simply to ensure that what he witnessed on Cal’brian would never happen again. The promise of genetic research has been outlawed for a reason — the power in it is too unstable to control.

Phil sighs, finishes his caf, and then stands. He walks away from the forward section, through the galley, and into the small cabin at the stern. _The Lady Lola_ is not a large ship, built for one, or two if they are intimate, but she is home. After three years onboard, Phil knows every inch of her, every nut and bolt and square of deck plating. 

The head is located behind the cabin. Phil washes quickly and then steps to his closet. Mindful of the stops he will have to make once he reaches the planet’s surface, he chooses his wardrobe with care. He will need to walk to the elite business section to meet Mr. Merik, cross to the oceandocks to meet with Engineer Okoro, and then — depending on the results of his labours — make a detour into the Red Light district to speak with Madame Yelena. With such an itinerary, Phil chooses a formal dark overcoat and matching cane, paired with a casual blue waistcoat and an off-white dress shirt, together with a pair of dark, well tailored trousers. As he proceeds about his errands, he will be able to gradually ruffle his appearance, so as to blend into every environment. 

Once dressed, Phil lays out his eveningwear for the ball as he waits his turn in orbit, traffic droids bustling through the upper reaches of the atmosphere, directing ships entering and leaving Alorian space. Phil polishes his dress shoes while sitting in the pilot's seat, the sleeves of his dress shirt carefully pulled back. While he can dress himself when necessary, it is at times like these that he dimly regrets not having a valet, though, of course, no respectable employee would follow a man such as he.

Gentlemen are not meant to have professions. 

Finally, his turn to descend to the planet arrives, and Phil obeys the automated traffic controller as he guides _The Lady Lola_ down to the surface. Alora is as bustling as it ever is, space-scrapers brushing the upper atmosphere, grav-liners patrolling the lower streets, wheeled carriages pulled by brilliantly tacked horses walking amongst the foot traffic. Phil puts down his dress shoes and devotes his full attention to bringing _The Lady Lola_ into her assigned docking bay. He is a soldier by training, and a spy, but he has never been a gifted pilot. 

Finally, the ship lands, and Phil breathes out a sigh of relief. He has a few minutes until the docking droids will arrive to secure the ship and collect his payment, so Phil finishes shining his shoes and then fixes his appearance so he is ready to disembark the moment he is granted permission to do so.

“Welcome to the beautiful and prosperous planet of Alora,” the docking droid articulates when all procedures are complete and Phil is descending the cargo ramp. “Please present your identification card and data chips. The cost of this berth is ninety-seven chits per solar rotation. What is your intended stay, sir or ma’am?”

“It is ‘sir,’” Phil informs the droid, “and I plan to lift-off either tonight or tomorrow.”

“Very good, sir,” the droid says. It presents its datapad for Phil to log his information. He does so, and then authorizes the required payment amount. 

“Have a pleasant diurnal cycle,” the droid says, backing away once the exchange is complete. 

“You as well,” Phil says with a nod, and then looks around the docking bay. He has several items to take with him today, and while he _could_ simply haul them aboard the grav-lift himself, such a task would be below the social status he wishes to project. Besides, the roustabouts who loiter around the docking bay may be children, but they see all who come or go from this planet.

Sure enough, after a moment, a pair of young things amble towards him. “G’evening, sir,” the boy says. “Ne’d a hand, do ya?”

“I do indeed,” Phil agrees. “Five chits to you for loading my things onto the grav-lift, and another three if you do so swiftly.”

The boy nods eagerly. “Me an’ my sister will do it, sir. Right’un!” He hurries towards Phil’s ship, while the other child — his sister, apparently — follows closely behind him.

The two children work with alacrity. Phil has several containers of different sizes — hat boxes, most of them, though of course there are no hats inside. 

“Excellent,” Phil declares, when the work is done. “Eight chits, as promised.” He hands them over, and then adopts a conspiratorial tone, bending at the waist to bring him closer to their level. “Now, I do have another five chits here for hardworking people who keep their eyes and ears about them, and do not yapper.” Phil looks the children in the eye. “Would you be two of that sort?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” the girl says, piping up for the first time. She’s as brown as her brother, with thick, curly hair, and wide, intelligent eyes. They are wearing worn clothes often mended, but well cared for, and have the look of children growing up fast with just enough food. “We’re good ‘un’s, sir, just ask anybody.”

Phil nods. “As I suspected.” He glances around again, as much to project an air of secrecy as to confirm that the area is secure. The docking bay is bustling, but, for the moment, they are alone. “I am looking for someone, and while I do not know what he looks like, I do know his name. Would you be aware of a Baron von Strucker?” 

The boy pinches his lips together thoughtfully before shaking his head, but his sister lights up. “Oh, yes, sir! I know ‘im, sir. He’s a tall, fancy gentleman, like you’self, sir, except he wears a hat.” She peers at Phil in a disapproving way, as though his general air would be improved by such an appendage.

Phil stifles a laugh. “Is that so?”

“Aye, it is,” she goes on, “and he has a funny sort of eyeglass in place, just to the one eye, and not to two.” She rumbles her nose. “That’s odd, ‘in’it?”

“What’ca mean he’s only got one eyeglass?” her brother demands. “You’ur making that up.”

“I am not!” the girl declares. “He’s only got one eyeglass, I saw ‘im!”

“I believe you,” Phil tells her solemnly, quieting her brother down. “Can you remember when it was you last set eyes on him?”

“Yesterday, ‘round lunchtime,” the girl declares. “He came in on a ship. Denis was busy playing harpoon with the oth’boys, but I saws him.” 

“Excellent,” Phil says. “Thank you both, sincerely. Now,” he holds up the chits. “These are yours, but I hope you were being serious when you said you were trustworthy. I do not want this man to know I was asking of him.”

“Oh, no, sir,” the boy says, putting his hands on his hips and guarding his sister carefully as she takes the money. “We ain’t tell no’un.”

“Very good,” Phil says, nodding. He straightens. “If people ask, please tell them you were directing me towards the business section, and that I paid handsomely for the privilege.” 

“Absolutely, sir,” the girl agrees. “Will do.” She tucks the chits carefully into the pocket of her blouse. “And if you need an’thing, sir, just ask for Denis and Denada, and we’ll come running right quick!”

Phil smiles. “That I will. Thank you both.”

They raise their hands and wave, and then tumble off. Phil watches them go with a twist. He hopes he did not put them in danger by involving them. 

He shakes his head. No, von Strucker is most likely here for a business meeting and nothing more. Whatever children he is using for his experiments, he must have already acquired them.

Still, the chances are he took children such as these: young, bright, and vulnerable. Well loved, but due to circumstances, not always well protected.

Phil sighs. There is nothing to be done but find Baron von Strucker at the ball tonight and follow him back to his base.

Taking his grav-lift in hand, Phil sets off towards the business section. Mr. Merik meets him at the scheduled time, as promised, and Phil hands over the majority of his boxes. He confirms the receipt of his payment, shakes hands with Mr. Merik, and starts towards the oceandocks.

It is a fair walk. Phil could take a transport, but that would necessitate handing his grav-lift over to others, and he prefers to keep an eye on it himself. Besides, the planet of Alora is a beautiful world. Phil makes it to the boardwalk and then stares at the ocean, wondering, as he often does when here, if the ancient homeland of Earth was so picturesque. Not in later years, of course, when humanity was forced to flee, but perhaps in an earlier, simpler time. 

Phil turns away. He shall never know. Perhaps that is why the thought haunts him so.

Stopping some distance away from the docks, Phil arranges his grav-lift behind a natural windblock and begins unbuttoning his overcoat. He carefully stows it, along with his cane, in one of the larger boxes he has kept with him in preparation for this eventuality. With a little care, his clothing is secured without too much creasing. Phil then smoothes the contours of his waistcoat and adjusts his cuffs. He focuses on projecting the air of a man still new in his success, and not yet bursting with it.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he says, approaching the docked ship _Alora’s Choice_ and presenting his false credentials. “Pablo Jimenez, to see Engineer Okoro. I believe I am expected?”

He puffs out his chest, just a little, and allows a hint of nervousness to enter his voice. The _Alora’s Choice_ is a fine vessel, tall and imposing, and it would be strange for a minor businessman such as Pablo Jimenez to be anything less than awed in its presence.

The dock officer gives him a proud smile, checks his itinerary, and then gestures Phil forward. “Of course, Mr. Jimenez. Step forward and to your left, and then follow the signs. Engineer Okoro is expecting you.”

Phil smiles and starts forward. He passes through a rigorous security check and is led to the stern deck. He studies the ship as they traverse and notes that — unfortunately — it matches his downloaded schematics perfectly.

Navy Commander Jiang had been killed aboard this ship, three standard weeks ago. Phil had learned of her death along with the rest of the public, and then had gone to Nick with a question. Something about the name had rung familiar to him, and Nick had confirmed it: Navy Commander Jiang had been one of the seven Key Holders employed by the Galactic Alliance.

Key Holders are in charge of the data encryption cyphers changed on a standard monthly cycle that work to guarantee secure transmissions across the whole of the Galactic Alliance. Seven individuals are chosen, from different positions and government stations, and their identity kept secret. Phil only knew who Navy Commander Jiang was because he had guarded her once while in the army.

He had given himself a short history lesson once learning of her secret identity — computers had been previously used to generate random cyphers, but their methods had been proven too vulnerable. Instead, Key Holders were chosen, and instructed once a month to choose any sort of phrase. These seven phrases were combined to form a base for a combination that would be used across the entire Galactic Alliance for the next standard month. The system was redundant enough that the death or capture of one Key Holder was not enough to disrupt the system. 

The death of three, however, was.

When Nick confirmed that Jiang had been a Key Holder, Phil had gone looking through recent reports. He found two other suspicious deaths immediately: Representative Yow and General Petrovitch. Both had been assassinated recently, though of course the public had been told their deaths were accidental. 

Phil had confronted Nick with his suspicions, and had been told — unofficially — that yes, all three had been Key Holders. The Alliance was currently scrambling to find their replacements. Nick had assured him that S.H.I.E.L.D. knew who the responsible parties were. The notable assassin Hawkeye had killed Representative Yow, and the equally legendary Black Widow had killed both Jiang and Petrovitch. They had thought for a time that perhaps the Winter Soldier was active again, but that rumour had proved untrue.

Phil had expressed his private doubts. Hawkeye and the Black Widow may be assassins, but they had demonstrated the possession of a moral compass time and time again, while the Winter Soldier had not. At least, so Phil believed. Nick was not convinced. He felt that if they were paid enough, any assassin would certainly kill three Alliance Key Holders, regardless of the turmoil their deaths would cause on a Galactic scale.

“They may not have known,” Nick had dismissed. “The three were simply targets, numbers on a sheet.”

“There is evidence that they investigate every assassination,” Phil had pressed. “The Black Widow especially is a spy of unparalleled distinction, and you think she did not realize that _two_ of her most recent kills were Key Holders?”

Nick had sighed. Phil had left his office shortly afterwards.

Hawkeye _had_ killed Representative Yow, of that Phil was certain. The angle of the shot, the difficulty… It had to have been him. The master marksmen is many things, but subtle is not one of them, at least when it comes to his weapon of choice. No one knows the man’s face, his age, or anything about his history, but he kills with a bow and arrow, and his shots are unmistakable. 

The question remaining is who killed Navy Commander Jiang and General Petrovitch. Phil had not been satisfied with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s inquiry, and so had come to Alora himself to investigate. 

“Mr. Jimenez,” Engineer Okoro says, when Phil reaches his office, security waiting politely outside the room. “How pleasant to make your acquaintance, though I confess I do not understand the reason for your visit.”

They exchange bows, and Phil smiles ingratiatingly. “I confess to coming to you, Engineer Okoro, because I had understood — through the grapevine, as it were — that you were in the market for a new magnetic resonator. I just so happen to have one, and at a very good price.”

This was the gamble — Navy Commander Jiang had been killed while working inside the MR chamber that lay at the heart of an oceangoing vessel. It would have been impossible for the Winter Soldier to kill her had the resonance chamber been active, since the magnetic waves would interfere with his metal arm. 

That was the one constant they knew regarding the identity of the Winter Soldier. Opinion differed on whether he was one man somehow ageless, or a series of men who had been illegally cybernetically enhanced, but all agreed on one thing: his left arm had been replaced with one made of metal.

Unfortunately for Phil’s theory, Engineer Okoro frowns. “A new magnetic resonator? I am sorry, Mr. Jimenez, but you heard wrong. The _Alora’s Choice_ does not require a new resonator. Ours is working quite efficiently.”

Phil lets his dismay show. “Are you certain? I had heard it was nonfunctional a few weeks ago, that it went offline for a period of time.”

Okoro shakes his head. “It has been working steadily for the past three months, without incident and without fail.” He smiles. “If we do have problems, I will of course seek out a new resonator, and will keep you in mind. You have Navy approval, I understand?”

“I do indeed,” Phil assures him. He sighs. “Well then, I apologize for wasting your time, Engineer Okoro. I must have received incorrect information.” He bows again.

Okoro returns it. “Not at all, Mr. Jimenez. It is always good to be proactive.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” Phil says. He takes his grav-lift and leaves, security tailing him.

_Well,_ Phil thinks to himself when he is deposited on the docks. _That is disappointing._

The security on the vessel had been top-notch. In addition to the officer following him throughout the ship, Phil had observed a number of other, highly effective, methods. There is no way another assassin could have made it through — there is simply no one else on the Winter Soldier, Hawkeye, or the Black Widow’s level.

He knows that at the time Jiang was killed, Hawkeye was on Xiang assassinating Representative Yow. The functioning magnetic resonator meant the Winter Soldier could not have done it. That means the Black Widow killed Navy Commander Jiang.

Phil shakes his head and steps back to his windbreak. That leaves only General Petrovitch’s death unexplained. He had been killed on Magnolia, and his body has not been found. It is likely he is dead, but not certain, and that uncertainty _itself_ is proof that the Black Widow had removed him — she is the only one subtle enough.

There is only one way to be sure. Opening his waistcoat, Phil rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt and unbuttons his collar. He takes a flask from one of his boxes and takes a small sip, and then splashes a few drops on his collar. He stows the flask in the waistband of his pants, and runs his hands several times through his hair.

Starting off again, Phil buys several bundles of cheap coats from a nearby market stall and covers his grav-lift with them. He takes the flask from its place and pretends to drink. When he resumes his pace, it’s with the swaying, listing gate of a drunk, or at least of a man heavily into his cups. 

The Red Light district is naturally not far from the oceandocks. Phil keeps his eyes on his surroundings as the streets become more populated. It is not far from there to Madame Yelena’s House, which sits between the edge of the Red Light district and the more wealthy establishments, perfectly positioned to accept customers from both sides. A grand mansion, it is not the most prosperous House on the street, but it is the oldest. Several girls linger outside of it, including Madame Yelena herself.

She recognizes Phil when she sees him and pretends not to. “Good day, sir,” she says. “Come inside and sit with us, have some tea and some company.”

Phil grins drunkenly and lets his gaze wander away from her to the pretty girls. None of them hold any real interest for him, and while there are a few boys as well, Phil feels no temptation. He prefers men, but not these young things, attired in cheap, but carefully applied clothes, who bat their eyelashes and try to look seductive. 

“Come now, come now,” Madame Yelena purrs, playing the part of Housemistress to the hilt. Her grey hair is swept back from her face. “Lovely bunch of younglings, my good sir. Take Gracie, she’s a good ‘un. Gracie, go on up there with Mister—?”

“Grey,” Phil says, slurring the word slightly, and stepping past her and into the house. “Mr. Grey.”

“Mr. Grey, then,” Madame Yelena says. Her face has lost a shade of colour, but she makes no comment on the choice of name, their own kind of simple code. Instead she waves the girl inside and up the grand staircase that takes up the majority of the room. “Go on, then.”

Phil stumbles after Gracie, leaving his grav-lift below. The house is large, and well cared for. The room Gracie leads him to is one of the smaller ones, but something a drunk of his standing could perhaps afford. Unfortunately for Gracie, Phil lies on the bed when she steps into the bathroom to ‘freshen up,’ and promptly pretends to fall asleep.

He hears Gracie come out of the bathroom, and hides his smile at her disgusted huff. The door opens, then shuts, and then — a minute and a half later — opens again.

Phil opens his eyes and rolls smoothly to his feet, bowing deeply as he does so. “Madame Yelena, thank you for being so prompt.”

“Aye, you knew I would, Mr. _Grey,_ ” she growls. Her beautiful, weathered face is pinched, and her eyes look old “There is only one topic you would find so urgent.”

Phil meets her gaze, all pretences of drunkenness having left him. Madame Yelena, in contrast, is still a Housemistress, and a good one at that. 

She is, however, not _only_ a Housemistress, and certainly, that is not all she has ever been.

“The Black Widow killed Navy Commander Jiang,” Phil tells her.

He is watching for her reaction. She knows that he is watching, but as far as Phil can tell, her hiss of irritation is true.

“If she did, than she did so without knowing the full consequences,” Yelena asserts. “Navy Commander Jiang was not only a war hero, she had a darker side as well. You know as well as I do that the Black Widow chooses her contracts carefully. Despite what you insist, the Black Widow is not your enemy.”

“She is not my anything,” Phil counters. “I carry no ill feeling towards her.” He in fact respects her greatly, but Yelena does not need to know that.

Yelena waves the rebuff away. “You may not, but the Galactic Alliance does.” She paces before the bed, anger visible in every short, sharp step. “I hated her, for a long time, but that was before. I know her truly now. She would not have done this had she understood.” Yelena stops, her shoulders hunching. “She is running scared — or as scared as she will ever be. She is not stopping to think.” Yelena turns and stares at Phil. “That is _your_ honed skill.”

Phil raises one eyebrow. “I am not running.”

“You will be,” Yelena predicts darkly. 

Phil purses his mouth. “Do you know if she has taken any other contracts recently?”

Yelena shakes her head. “I know nothing of her itinerary.”

“Do you know if she killed General Petrovitch?” Phil presses.

Yelena pales. “General Petrovitch is dead?”

Phil blinks at her surprise. “He died last week, on Magnolia,” he explains. “The news _has_ been made public.”

Yelena stumbles backwards until she hits the bed. “We had an upset, one of the girls was assaulted and I was forced to deal with it. I kept away from the news…” She takes a shuddering breath. “Petrovitch. Dead.” Her features harden. “Good.”

Phil stares, surprised at the vehemence in her voice. “Do you think she killed him?”

Yelena licks her lips. “I do not know,” she admits. “She wanted him dead, of course, we all did, but to actually do it?” She shakes her head. “I do not know.” 

Phil digests that piece of information. Yelena is cagey about her history, but it appears that she knew the Black Widow better than he had thought. He waits, but Yelena says nothing else. She appears lost in her own thoughts.

Phil wants to question her further, but he is conscious of the time, and of her poor response to inquires in the past. “Do you have anything else to offer me?” 

She shakes her head. “Only that Hawkeye was seen here recently.”

Phil tenses. “Hawkeye the assassin? When was that?”

“Last standard week, shortly after Jiang was killed.” She snorts. “I would rather think _he_ killed her than the Black Widow. I know you persist in romanticizing him, but the man is an idiot.”

Phil refuses to blush. His feelings for the master marksmen are professional only. “I am certain he did not kill Jiang.”

Yelena shrugs. “Perhaps he is working with the Black Widow, then. Perhaps _he_ killed Petrovitch, for her.”

Phil digests that possibility, while refusing to be jealous that Yelena has clearly met them both. “Thank you, Madame Yelena,” he says finally. “As always, I appreciate your insight.” He hesitates. “I trust my things downstairs are in one piece?”

She quirks one lip, the ghost of a smile on her face. “Yes. The girls will have touched the coats, of course, but they will not have gone through the boxes.” 

“I am glad to hear it,” Phil says. “The coats are for them, I purchased them with that thought in mind.” He takes a bag of chits from an inner pocket, and places it on a side table. “I shall leave this for you as well.”

Yelena takes the bag. “I will give it to Gracie,” she says. “I shall tell her I took it from you while you were sleeping.”

Phil smiles. “Very well.” He shifts his shoulders, re-adopts his pose of drunkenness, and then nods. “I am ready.”

Yelena meets his eyes, and then starts screeching. “Get out of here, you lazy drunk! Stop wasting my time and the time of my girls! Get on, get out!” 

Phi skitters out the door and down the stairs, swaying and tripping over his own feet, only just managing to catch himself on the banister before he falls down the steps. “I—”

“Out, out, out!” Yelena screams. “Get out!” 

Phil grabs the hilt of his grav-lift and runs, throwing off the coat and not slowing. He hurries until he is several streets away, then staggers to a stop, pretends to vomit, and wipes his mouth before stumbling into an alley.

Straightening quickly, Phil unbuttons his clothes as he goes through his boxes, confirming that all is as it had been. He takes a new, unlined shirt from its hiding place, exchanges it for the one on his back, and uses a clean handkerchief to wipe the smell of cheap whiskey from his skin. Once that is done, he fixes his collar and resumes his greatcoat, and the man who exits the alleyway is a well dressed businessman again, not a drunk in search of a cheap night. 

Hurrying back to his ship as quickly as he can, Phil puts off reviewing the information he has accumulated. It is only once he is back aboard _The Lady Lola_ that he allows himself to sink into a chair.

So, Madame Yelena has not only been keeping up to date on the Black Widow’s recent events, but she had once trained with her, and General Petrovitch had been somehow involved. Phil shakes his head — how can that be? Yelena is an old woman, older than Phil by far. Could the Black Widow be the same age? 

No, she must be younger, and have been a child when Yelena was an adult. The feats the Black Widow has done could not have been completed by a woman over the age of sixty.

And yet... Phil shivers. That means the Black Widow has been training to be an assassin since she was a girl. What sort of childhood did she have? What sort of life? 

Phil does his best to push the horror of that to the back of his mind. He must not think of her that way. Despite his respect for her and for Hawkeye, and his theory regarding their kills, if Phil meets either of them in combat, he must be prepared to view them as a deadly assassins and not as anything else they may or may not be. 

He has a more difficult time drawing his mind away from Hawkeye, and his supposed presence on Alora only a short time ago. The distance from Alora to Magnolia is not great; it is very possible he had come to the planet either before or after assassinating General Petrovitch.

Phil does not like to think that he killed Petrovich, but only because that would mean that his morals were less circumspect than Phil had thought, and _not_ because such an action would suggest that he and the Black Widow were intimate.

Phil sighs. Nick has continued to insist that Phil views the world through rose-tinted glasses. He does not wish to prove his friend right.

Leaving his investigation in the past, Phil turns his attention to the ball tonight. He has wasted enough time already — he needs to be at the Trent Estate within the hour. Washing swiftly, Phil fixes his hair, shaves, and then eyes the black tie ensemble he had readied this morning.

A valet would truly make things easier. Staring at the clothes, Phil cannot help but think of Caladonia, his family’s estate, and his own personal valet from when he was a child. Mr. Barton had been a kind, elderly man who would lay out Phil’s things every morning, and then explain the importance of every item as he dressed Phil, gently correcting him when he named things incorrectly. Phil had loved him dearly.

Before Mr. Barton, Phil had been looked after by a nanny, of course, but Phil’s sister had requested a lady’s maid when she turned thirteen, and Phil’s parents had decided to allow Mr. Barton to begin teaching Phil the basics of good gentlemanship at the tender age of seven. Mr. Barton had done that, and more. 

Phil still misses him. He had died shortly after Phil left for school — it had been a sudden heart attack, in his rooms, before anyone could get to him. Phil has always thought it was due to the shock of his younger son being arrested. He had stolen the silverware, Phil remembers. Phil’s parents had dropped the charges, but of course the younger Mr. Barton had been dismissed from service. Phil has a hazy memory of hearing he had run off with one of the serving girls, a woman with whom he had already been rumoured to have one illegitimate son. 

Ah well, that had all been years ago. For now, Phil simply struggles into clothes that are not designed to be put on independently. After he is dressed, he does his best to get out the creases, using a hot cloth pressed against the fabric as Mr. Barton had taught him. 

With ten minutes still to spare, Phil is ready. He eyes himself in the mirror, decides that he will do, and carefully exits _The Lady Lola._ Spying Denis and Denada loitering about the docking bay, Phil pays them a few chits to hire him a hack chaise.

“Much better, sir,” Denada declares, eying the state of him. “Tho’ I think a hat would set it, still.”

Phil smiles. “Oh, you do, do you?”

Denada nods seriously as the chaise arrives, pulled by a gleaming horse. Phil checks the driver, who nods, friendly-like, and looks well dressed. Phil nods back. It appears the children chose well.

Denada is clearly unhappy with his hat-less state, but allows Phil to climb aboard and seat himself regardless. “Maybe next time, sir.”

“Maybe then,” Phil agrees. “Have a good evening, Denada. Denis.”

“You too, sir!” Denis shouts, and then lowers his voice. “And good luck.”

Phil smiles at his attempt at discretion. “Thank you, Denis.”

The driver chuckles as they pull away. “They’re good kids.”

“That they are,” Phil agrees, and settles himself into his seat. The remainder of the ride passes in silence.

Phil does his best not to dwell on the fact that he is riding to a ball, but he cannot help but remember the last time he had been present at such an event.

It had been a ball in his honour, at his parents’ estate. Phil had pasted a smile on his face and endured, but it had been a trial. He had been barely a month past his discharge, and though Nick had astonishingly converted it into an honourable one, Phil had found it impossible not to grieve. 

The army was to be his life. From the first moment Phil had witnessed soldiers in action, during the campaign against the Libilonion Uprising, he had known that he would find his career in the military. His parents had been displeased by his decision, but they had accepted it. As the youngest child, Phil was free to do as he liked, since his sister would inherit. His parents would have preferred he find a quieter occupation, but the army was an acceptable life for a younger son.

And Phil had been good at it. He had excelled in the military, had taken well to a soldier’s life, and had truly enjoyed his choice of career. His satisfaction had lasted until he was assigned to General Ross’s unit, and the disastrous campaign at Cal’brian. 

Phil shakes his head, remembering. He will never regret going against the General’s order to fire on Banner — or the monstrous Hulk he had transformed into — because of the risk of hitting innocent civilians, but he does regret the horror that had resulted, and wishes he could have done more.

In the end, he had pulled the General shouting and cursing away from the wreckage, at the risk of his own life, and that alone had saved him. The General had wanted Phil arrested for disobeying orders. The entire matter had been sealed under galactic security, but with Nick’s help, Phil had been excused for his actions. He had avoided the firing squad, but had nonetheless been dismissed with stern instructions never to talk about what he had seen.

Phil had obeyed those instructions, but the dismissal had sunk him into a deep depression. Phil knows his friends and family had suffered greatly in the six months that followed, until he had found _The Lady Lola_ for sale in a junk yard, and had bought her.

He had spent the next half-year fixing her up, and then left his parents’ estate, once again over their objections. He would not marry, nor purchase property, nor spend the rest of his years with his feet on the ground. He refused to. 

Three years later, Phil is happy with his life. _The Lady Lola_ is his home now. He has been back to his parents’ estate on Caladonia, but rarely. He prefers to wander among the stars. 

Shaking his head at his own foolish reminiscing, Phil looks beyond the chaise to see they have nearly arrived. The Trent Estate is a lovely, winding piece of property with white fenced borders. Phil is not the first to arrive. A line of carriages wait their turn, horses throwing their heads and stamping, the occasional grav-lift humming. Phil uses the time to fix his coat. The creases have nearly all been worked out.

Finally he is allowed to disembark. Phil tips his driver handsomely, and makes his way to the house. 

“Mr. Coulson,” the Lady Trent greets him, coming forward the instant he crosses the threshold. She must have been waiting for him. “How lovely of you to come. When I heard you were in the vicinity, I simply _had_ to press you. You do our home a lovely honour.”

“Lady Trent,” Phil says with a smile, offering a bow. She is beautiful woman, slightly faded, like a caramel rose at the end of August. Her dress is made of the finest fabric, and spun in the newest style, with deep folds at the skirt and gossamer sleeves. Her hair is a dusty brown, tightly curled, and swept back from her face, tucked under an elegant cap that signifies her status as a married woman. “It is you who do me an honour. You have a lovely estate. Thank you for your kind invitation.”

“Thank you very much,” Lady Trent says. “Please, come in and enjoy yourself.” Despite her kind smile, there is tension in her eyes and around her mouth. Her hand, when Phil takes it, is trembling. She squeezes once before letting go. “I will find you later.”

Phil nods, and makes his way into the house. It is a grand manor, with many rooms, and a large foyer filled with people. Beyond that is the ballroom, and Phil can hear the murmur of distant instruments from here. 

The whispers begin almost the moment he arrives. “Did she say _Coulson?_ As in Phil Coulson?” says one young woman to her partner. 

“Oh, yes,” the girl replies. “The noted rogue, you know.” 

“No, he is a war hero,” a man interrupts, while someone else says, “I heard he received the Gilded Star.”

Phil does his best to ignore the whispers. He has much practice in that regard, since the status of his family, and their relative isolation, has often meant that people talked of him. His discharge from the army had only escalated the situation, and the rumours of what he has been up to since have, of course, not helped matters.

Thankfully, he is not a tall man and has a plain face, so as long as he does nothing outrageous, he has a tendency to fade into the background. It is a natural skill Phil has been perfecting since he was ten years old and new to school, alone and rudderless for the first time in his life.

Phil smiles politely, manages to look at everyone and no one in particular, and makes his way to the ballroom. Still, he cannot help but notice when someone says, “Is he of the _Caladonia_ Coulsons?” and one particularly handsome man looks up sharply.

Their eyes meet across the foyer. The man is standing next to a pretty redheaded woman in a well-fitted black dress. His suit is of the highest quality, fastened appropriately, with no hint of creases. Still, there is something almost roguish in the set of his shoulders. He stands slovenly, hips cocked, and there is a quirk to his lip that says he is often found smirking.

He is not smirking now. He is staring at Phil from across the room, his eyes focused on Phil as if nothing else exists around them, and Phil finds himself breathless at their beauty. They are fascinating eyes, multicoloured and piercing, and they stare at Phil as if they would peel back every secret he owns.

And then the music swells, someone laughs, and the moment is broken. The man blinks and looks away. Phil takes a shuddering breath and attempts to gain control of himself. It has been a long time since he has been rendered speechless by the sight of a pretty face.

Thankfully, Nick is not here to see him floundering. Phil surreptitiously adjusts his cuffs and makes his way into the ballroom. 

Inside, the party is in full swing, men and women laughing and talking, and a line of dancers waiting their turn. A stage has been set at one end for the band, and discreet speakers mounted into the walls. Phil notes the quiet spots, the points where the music will be lessened, as well as the nearest entrances and exits. There appears to be a balcony adjacent to the ballroom, with several sets of doors leading to it. 

A violin trills and the dancers clap. Phil smiles and turns aside, moving towards the back of the room. Despite the disaster that was the ball at his parents’ house, Phil can admit that he misses dancing. It is unlikely he will be able to try the floor tonight, however, for he must keep his eyes upon his targets.

On that note, Phil scans the crowd in earnest for Baron von Strucker. He does not see him, but there is a constant trickle of new attendants, so Phil loiters around the punch bowl.

A voice causes him to turn. “Mr. Coulson, how wonderful to see you again. Why it has been an _age,_ ” says a woman Phil knows not at all. She is an older lady, likely of his mother’s generation, and dressed in a large blue gown decorated with green feathers.

Phil stifles a smile. She looks rather like a peacock. 

“I am Mrs. Henderson, of course,” she says, extending her hand. Phil takes it and bows. “I was great friends with your mother, once upon a time. How dreadful of her to move all the way to Caladonia. We were at school together, you see.”

“Of course,” Phil says, politely. He has a dim memory of Mrs. Henderson, likewise dressed in feathers, attending a party his mother had thrown many years ago. “How do you do, Mrs. Henderson?”

“Very well, very well,” she sighs happily. “I am well settled on Alora these days, and enjoy these assemblies, local though they are.”

“The Lady Trent and her wife have put on a lovely affair,” Phil says cordially.

Mrs. Henderson’s hum is noncommittal. “Perhaps. Senator Stern is here, at least, and a half-dozen other notable people. How pleasant of you to join us. Is it work or pleasure that brings you here tonight?” Her voice is cultured, but her eyes are sharp.

Phil bites his cheek to hide his smile. “Pleasure, I am afraid.”

Mrs. Henderson’s gaze turns piercing, but after a moment, she seems convinced of Phil’s sincerity. “Yes, I am afraid it happens to the best of us. Still, it is fortunate that the band is lively, for I cannot stand a limp player.”

“Indeed,” Phil says, momentarily distracted as he catches sight of someone entering the ballroom. It is a short man wearing a tall hat, with a severe face pinched downward, as though it is disapproving of all it sees. The monocle perched upon his nose confirms Phil’s suspicions. This must be Baron von Strucker. 

Silently thanking Denada for her cool observation, Phil turns his attention back to Mrs. Henderson.

“Of course, the flute player is second rate,” she is saying, “but he is the Lady Trent’s third cousin, you know, so naturally he is invited to all these events. Still, I think he might work on his trills; they have not quite the fullness one would expect from his frame.”

“Too true,” Phil agrees, his eyes darting back to von Strucker. It appears as though the Baron has settled into a dark corner. He is watching the room, not speaking to anyone, and Phil debates how he might get closer without drawing attention to himself.

“Mrs. Henderson, how lovely to see you,” the Lady Trent says suddenly, appearing through the crowd. She smiles and curtsies, though the look of tension around her eyes is as deep as ever. “I saw that my wife had greeted you, but wished to say hello myself. How are you enjoying the festivities?”

“Oh, very well,” Mrs. Henderson tutts, “but I must speak with you later about your flute player.”

“Of course,” the Lady Trent says, her attention clearly elsewhere. Her eyes dart to Phil, then away again. 

Phil notes the trembling in her fingers. He bows. “May I gather you some refreshments, ladies?”

Mrs. Henderson’s eyes light up. “Certainly! I will have the punch, please.”

“I as well,” Lady Trent murmurs.

Phil nods and turns away. He keeps one eye on Baron von Strucker, but he has not moved from his spot. He appears to be waiting for someone.

There is a sizable crowd near the punch bowl, and Phil is fortunate enough to draw the attention of another elderly gentleman, who follows him back to the ladies, and distracts Mrs. Henderson with conversation. 

Phil is able to walk a short distance away with Lady Trent.

“Once again, I must thank you for coming, Mr. Coulson,” she says nervously. “Especially on such short notice.”

“It is no trouble,” Phil assures her. He wishes to ask her about the ring, but the situation is not nearly private enough for that. 

The Lady Trent seems to agree. She glances around uncomfortably.

Phil decides he has enough time to risk a dance. The Baron has not moved, and standing up with Lady Trent would give them enough privacy to speak. He gestures to the floor. “Would you do me the honour, my Lady?”

She shoots him a relieved smile and acquiesces. “Yes, of course, Mr. Coulson.”

Fortunately the music is just winding down. Phil and Lady Trent take their places and, when the music starts, have several minutes of conversation during which it is quite difficult to overhear. They are near the front of the line, but the dance appears a sedate one.

The Lady still seems nervous. “Again, thank you for coming, Mr. Coulson.”

He smiles reassuringly. “It is my pleasure, Lady Trent.” He debates how to broach the subject. “I understand you have a matter of some delicacy you wish to discuss?”

Her fingers go to her sleeve, brush something there, and then drop again. “Yes, I— I do.” She takes a deep breath. “I understand from my good friend Baroness Woo that you are the man to see regarding… difficult circumstances.”

Phil nods. “I have had the pleasure of offering my assistance, yes.” He chooses his words carefully. “Due to my family situation, I have somewhat of an insider’s view as to how certain delicate matters must be handled.”

Lady Trent looks relieved. “Yes, exactly. I could not discuss this with a commoner, of course, but like you said, Mr. Coulson, you are one of us.”

He forces a smile. He is not, of course, and never has been, or he would have been happy with an estate to manage and servants to command, but it is true that he was raised in that world. “Of course.”

The Lady nods. She takes something small from its hiding place in her sleeve. It is wrapped in soft cloth, but is unmistakably a ring. “This was a present from an admirer, years ago, before I met my wife. I kept it, for sentimental value only, but recently I—” Her eyes dart to the side and then back again. “I have decided to sell it. I do not wish to draw attention to the ring, however. I would prefer the transaction be conducted quietly.”

“Absolutely,” Phil assures her, and then, when their turn at the dance begins, takes her hand — and the ring. “I already have a buyer in mind, a gentleman who will ask no questions, and who will give the ring to someone who will cherish it.”

“Thank you,” Lady Trent says. She smiles gratefully, but Phil notes the tension she still carries in her shoulders. 

He looks to the side, where her eyes had darted. It is the corner where Baron von Strucker has been lurking. Coincidence? Perhaps not. The Lady Trent has not the look of a woman lost to drugs — there is no unnatural pallor to her face — and Phil can think of only one other reason a woman of her social standing would might require untraceable credits. 

“My Lady,” Phil begins delicately. “I hope you know that I am ever at your service, in this matter, and in any other.”

She smiles tightly, and her hand, in Phil’s, begins to tremble. “Thank you, Mr. Coulson, but I assure you that all is well.”

She is lying, and not very well. Phil squeezes her fingers briefly. “I am glad to hear it, but as you have been so forthright with me, I feel the need to extend the same courtesy.”

She cocks her head in silent question.

Phil chooses his words with care. “There is a guest at your party tonight who I suspect has done much wrong, both to you, and to many others. I intend to bring him to justice.” Phil tips his head to the side, in the direction of the Barton and his quiet corner. 

The Lady Trent has gone stiff. “Truly?” she whispers. “You would rid me of him?”

“I will rid the galaxy of him,” Phil promises. “He has done much that is wrong.”

She chokes, and her steps in dance falter. “He has, he—” She takes a deep breath. “He told me to hold this ball — _ordered_ me too, like a servant. He said to do it or he would tell—”

Phil cuts her off with a shake of his head. “You need not tell me, my Lady. I do not need to know what secret he holds over your head.”

She lets out a shuddering breath. “Thank you.”

“I only need to know what he told you,” Phil adds. “What did he order you to do _precisely?_ ”

The Lady Trent bites her lower lip. “He told me to host a ball, a large ball, and he gave me a guest list.”

Phil catches his breath. “Who was on the list?”

She shakes her head. “A half-dozen people. Commander Gonzales, Mr. Steel, Miss Lan Nguyen, Senator Stern—”

“Senator Stern,” Phil repeats. Mrs. Henderson had mentioned him. Phil scans the ballroom over Lady Trent’s shoulder and, sure enough, there he is; a large, white man with a wide smile and cruel eyes, mingling with the other guests. 

As Phil watches, Stern’s eyes flicker over the room. They travel until they reach von Strucker in his corner, and then they stop. The two men share a nod, and then Stern begins divorcing himself from his current conversation.

“I am afraid I will need a copy of that list,” Phil says, turning back to the Lady Trent. “Could you please have a copy made for me?”

“Of course,” she says. The dance is nearly done, and they wind down, moving back to their start positions. “I will have it transmitted to your ship.”

“Thank you,” Phil says, squeezing her fingers. The dance ends, and he bows. “I wish you all the best, my Lady, now and in the future hence.”

She curtsies back, looking stronger than she had before. “Thank you, Mr. Coulson, and I you.”

He smiles, and steps away. Senator Stern is already moving. Phil decides on a parallel route through the crowd, and arrives within earshot of the two men just as they begin talking.

It is fortunate he had the Lady Trent’s warning, for from his previous vantage point, he might have missed the conversation. The men are standing some distance apart, watching the crowd from opposite views.

Phil can see the Baron most easily, and notes that his eyes look cold. “Stopping to talk with the masses? Enjoying your new found popularity, I see.” Von Strucker scowls. “Do not forget who it was who vaulted you to the top.”

Stern smiles cruelly. Phil remembers why his name is familiar now — he follows politics only generally, but Stern’s rise has been meteoric. “Of course not,” Stern says. “Hail—”

The woman to Phil’s right laughs loudly. He curses, but misses the next few words that are said. 

“—absolutely,” Stern is saying, when Phil is able to hear the conversation again. “What of the twins?”

“They are amazing,” von Strucker says. “They will be our greatest creation.”

Phil feels his insides go cold. They must be talking of the children. 

“Good,” Stern sighs. “I do not need to tell you, Strucker—”

“You need tell me nothing,” von Strucker interrupts. “It is _you_ who must remember to do your part when the time comes.”

“I will, I _will,_ ” Stern says. He shakes his head. “Fine, here.” He glances around, and then, apparently convinced they are unobserved, reaches into one pocket. “The reason you were so insistent we meet in person.” 

His hand drops below the waist, and von Strucker’s does as well. Phil cannot see them clearly, but something must pass between the two men. A data crystal perhaps? 

“Ahh,” von Strucker says. “Excellent. It is accurate, then?”

“In every way,” Stern promises. “Now. No getting rid of me, you hear? I still have more to offer the organization, especially as highly placed as I am.”

“Of course,” von Strucker murmurs, but even Phil can tell that he has lost interest in the conversation. “Now, if you will excuse me.”

“Of course,” Stern says, his eyes narrowed. “Good luck with those kids, Strucker.”

Von Strucker nods to him, and then leaves. Phil watches him move towards the punch table. He turns back to Stern, who eyes von Strucker, and then shrugs and moves back towards the dance floor. Several people see him coming, and smile, and Stern goes to them with a wide grin and a loud laugh.

Phil debates who to follow, but in the end chooses von Strucker, as he must. Nick will be interested to hear of this conversation, but the children are Phil’s main focus now. He wonders if von Strucker will stay longer, or leave. The guest list he had given Lady Trent had more than just Stern’s name on it, after all.

But no — he is leaving. Phil watches Strucker pour himself a glass of punch, turn, and walk towards the balcony. His steps are measured, unhurried, but still long. Phil hurries to catch up. It would not do to lose him now.

Keeping well back, Phil follows von Strucker through the set of glass doors and out onto the balcony. It is a cool night, pleasantly so after the filtered air of the crowded ballroom. The balcony is a long, fenced portico with wide columns, evenly spaced, and short ledges perfect to hold a drink or a cigar. It will surely be crowded later, when the guests tire of dancing, but for now it is empty. Shadows pool along its length, cast by Serena, Alora’s first moon, which hangs alone and blue-white in the sky. 

Von Strucker stands in the middle of balcony, well away from the edges, about four columns down. He turns, and Phil thinks for a second that he has seen him. Phil pushes himself deeper into the shadows of his column, but he is safe. Strucker simply pulls a cigar from his pocket, lights it, and brings it to his lips. He takes a puff.

Phil exhales a careful breath, and then pauses. Ahead of him, in the recess of the next column, is a more solid darkness. Phil sees the outline of one foot, and an elbow, and then the dulled glint of a weapon. His breath quickens and he looks around. Three columns down, and to the left, is another solid shadow, this one smaller. In the moonlight, Phil can see tight red hair pulled back.

Phil’s mind darts through scenarios, but there is no option. The weapon ahead of him is readied, pulled back, and Phil finds himself leaping forward before it can be loosed. 

It is an arrow! Phil catches it before it can be fired, scoring the tip along his palm, but swallows his cry of pain. The archer who holds the weapon reacts with near-silent force, wrenching Phil away from his bow and pulling back his fist, clearly intent upon smashing Phil in the face.

Phil ducks. He is aware of the second shadow moving, closing on von Strucker, so Phil pulls one of his throwing knives from his jacket and flings it. He misses, but that was assumed — the knife was a distraction only.

Sure enough, the second shadow stops. It looks back towards Phil and the archer. Phil kicks the archer in the knee and readies a second knife. The archer leaps towards him, but Phil has years of training, live combat, and secret sessions with Nick Fury under his belt. He catches the archer, wrestles him to the ground, and points his knife at his throat.

The second shadow hesitates. 

Phil looks up at von Strucker. Still standing some distance away, and unaware of the fight, he takes another draw of his cigar, turns, and begins walking towards the garden. Phil waits until he crosses the length of the balcony. At the edge of the steps, he pauses again. He takes another puff of his cigar, looks up at the moon, and then pads slowly down the steps. His steps echo as he walks towards the greenery, and then he is gone.

The second shadow leaps immediately towards Phil. Phil defends himself, loses his grip on the archer, and rolls. He comes up with his knife at the ready to find himself staring at two people; the first a woman with bright red hair, half-hidden beneath a black knit cap, posed in perfect fighting stance, and the other a man with his bow in his hands, an arrow strung and at the ready.

Phil looks into the man’s eyes, and blinks. “You,” he says.

The man scowls. It _is_ him, the man from earlier, with the beautiful eyes, and the well tailored suit. He looks even more gorgeous here in the moonlight, his short hair mussed from the brief fight with Phil. 

The woman steps forward, drawing Phil’s attention. The fit of the gown and the colour of her hair strike Phil’s memory; she is the man’s companion from the foyer. “Put down your weapon and I promise to kill you quickly.” Her voice is flat, angry, and devoid of any identifying characteristics. 

Regardless, Phil knows who she is.

“A mere knife is useless against the esteemed Black Widow,” he says, making his decision and sinking to his knees, dropping his knife on the ground as he laces his fingers behind his head. “And, of course, the notable Hawkeye never misses.” He pauses, a thought occurring to him. “Why did you attack from the ground? There is an aviary at the other end of the gardens — a shot from there would have been well within your capabilities.”

Hawkeye blinks, checks over his shoulder, sees the aviary, and glowers. “Shut up.”

The Black Widow steps closer. “You know who we are, and you are clearly working with von Strucker. Tell me why we should not simply kill you now.”

Phil narrows his eyes. “If you had wanted to kill me, I would already be dead, and a body is difficult to dispose of in such a vulnerable location.” He shakes his head. “That is irrelevant. I am _not_ working with von Strucker, but I could not allow you to harm him. I need him alive.” He hesitates, not knowing how much to reveal, but Yelena’s words come back to him: _the Black Widow is not your enemy._

Phil can imagine Nick’s objections, but he overrules them. Instead, he looks up at the Black Widow, and decides to trust her — and his instincts. “There are children in danger.”

Standing to her right, Hawkeye sucks in a sharp breath. The Black Widow’s eyes narrow. “Prove it.”

Phil shakes his head. “I cannot. I came here today to follow von Strucker. He has been dealing in experimental genetic manipulation and my sources indicate that when this round of testing is done, he will liquidate the remnants of his laboratory.”

Hawkey keeps his arrow drawn, but he looks over at the Black Widow. “We cannot...”

She looks torn, but finally nods. “Stay with him,” she orders Hawkeye. “I will follow the Baron.”

Phil bites his lower lip, debating, but he has already made the decision to trust her. “My ship is _The Lady Lola,_ ” he tells her, “in docking bay ninety-four. Meet us there in the morning with any information you are able to find.”

Her eyes narrow, but she says nothing, and then she is gone.

Phil exhales. He looks at Hawkeye. “Do you think she will be able to track him?”

Hawkeye shrugs, and finally lowers his bow. “I would put nothing past her.” He eyes Phil. “How did you know who we are?”

Phil smiles. “There are few assassins who carry a bow.” He does his best to keep his tone measured and sure, though on the inside he cannot help but do a little dance of glee. He is speaking with _Hawkeye!_

He is even more beautiful than Phil had imagined.

Phil must seem too relaxed for the situation, for Hawkeye narrows his eyes. “Who _are_ you?”

“Phil Coulson,” Phil says, introducing himself as best he can while on his knees.

Hawkeye shakes his head and gestures for him to stand. “That is not what I meant, and you know it. Who do you work for, that you identify assassins so easily?”

“Nothing about the Black Widow is easy,” Phil counters, but he stands and brushes his pants as clean as he’s able. “Come, if we are not to follow her, then let us return to the party. I will explain everything there. We should not be seen talking in private together.”

Hawkeye’s expression shutters. “Of course, because we would not want to damage your _reputation,_ now would we?”

Phil cocks his head and frowns. That reply was more bitter than he would have thought. “I am not concerned with my reputation,” he counters, “but _yours_. My identity is known, and my presence at this party will be commented upon. I suspect there will even be a short paragraph in the Society papers tomorrow. You would not wish your face to accompany it, would you?”

Hawkeye blinks. “No,” he admits, sounding surprised, “I would not.” He stares at Phil a moment, then looks away, leaning over to do something tricky with his bow. It folds in half and then somehow in half again, and Hawkeye tucks the remains into his sleeve. The arrows he stows in a thin quiver that appears to be strapped to his back. He steps forward, and in the better light reflecting from the ballroom, Phil sees that his black suit is dusty and torn in one place from their fight.

“Here,” Phil says, stepping towards him. Hawkeye sucks in a breath, but he allows Phil to adjust his collar, lying it flat, and then to brush the dust from his suit. Phil can do nothing for the ripped cuff, but he hides it with a clever fold. 

Hawkeye fidgets. “It is of no use,” he mutters. “I am far past respectable.”

“You are gorgeous,” Phil murmurs unthinking, and then stops. Embarrassment floods him, and he drops his hands and steps back. “I mean, you look a rake, but it suits you.” He hopes the light is dim enough to hide his blush.

Hawkeye bites his lower lip, looking suddenly young. “Thank you,” he says, and then coughs. He straightens, pushing his shoulders back, and when he looks at Phil again, his soft expression has become a smirk. He jauntily offers Phil his arm. “Shall we?”

Phil rolls his eyes. “We shall enter one at a time, and five minutes apart.” _Or someone will think we were rolling in the garden,_ Phil thinks but mercifully does not say.

Hawkeye grins as if he’d heard the words regardless. “Very well, but you first. I want to watch you and make sure you do not run away.”

“Where would I go that you could not find me?” Phil asks, but does as instructed and steps through the glass doors. 

One or two guests look up, and Phil uses every trick he knows to make himself fade into the background, making his way around the crowd towards the punch bowl, and working to stand as though he has been there uninterrupted for hours.

A few minutes later, Hawkeye joins him. “That was impressive,” he murmurs. “If I had not had my eyes on you, I might have lost you completely.”

Phil shrugs. “Disappearing into a crowd is hardly out of the ordinary. It is nothing like hitting a square-centimeter target from a mile away.”

Hawkeye grins. “Are you talking about Brenaan? That _was_ a remarkable shot.” He looks delighted. “I am surprised you know about that.” He winks. “I had feared it was simply the Black Widow who held your attention.” 

Phil refuses to blush, and instead shakes his head. “I know of you both, of course. You are equally amazing. I had not realized you worked in a team, however. I thought you were independent assassins.” He does not mention Yelena’s supposition that they are intimate.

Hawkeye shrugs, reaching around Phil for a glass of his own. “We are, but the Widow and I go way back. Things have been...” He hesitates. “Not good lately.”

Phil blinks. “How so?”

Hawkeye looks away. “You have been keeping up to date on our work?”

Phil nods. “I know you killed Representative Yow.”

Hawkeye keeps his eyes on his glass. “He was billed as a heavy hitter for the Ma’an Mob. I was given information — pictures — that implicated him in several gruesome deaths. I did a little research of my own, of course, and took the contract. I had not realized—”

His breath catches, and Phil touches his arm. “You were not wrong. Yow _was_ a hitter for the Ma’an Mob.”

“He was _also_ a Key Holder for the Galactic Alliance,” Hawkeye spits, “though I did not learn such until later.” He whirls on Phil. “ _Why_ would a man such as he be entrusted with so important a position?”

Phil holds his gaze calmly. “Because he _was_ a hitter for the Ma’ans, though he had not worked for them for years. He was also a member of the Skakgog Royal Family through his mother’s side. Both the Ma’ans and the Skakgogs pushed for him to have political power. As a Key Holder, Yow had that, without requiring a promotion to a more prominent position. It was the perfect compromise.”

“One that has been shattered with his death,” Hawkeye says bitterly. “I understand now.”

Phil hesitates. “It is worse than that. The death of one Key Holder is not enough to cause galactic disruption, but the death of three…”

Hawkeye’s lips pinch together. “I am aware. So is the Black Widow.” He scowls. “They used us.”

Phil can do nothing but agree. “They did.”

“But who is _they?_ Do you know?”

Phil shakes his head. It is a question he has been grappling with since beginning this investigation. He knows it haunts Nick as well. “I do not.”

Hawkeye stares at him, and then looks away. “Of course you do not,” he says bitterly. “No one does. Except, perhaps, Baron von Strucker.”

Phil blinks. “Is that why you were after him tonight? To learn answers?” He had always suspected Hawkeye had some kind of moral code, but he had never imagined it was this rigorous.

Hawkeye nods. “The Widow and I have been searching for answers since we learned both Yow and Jiang were Key Holders. We wanted to know who had played us so effectively.” He shakes his head. “She had also been given information regarding Jiang that prompted her to take the contract, and because of recent events, she was hurried. She did not have time to investigate the matter more fully.” He looks troubled. “Neither of us did.”

Phil digests that. He remembers Yelena saying the Black Widow was running scared. “Your investigation led you to Baron von Strucker?” 

“No,” Hawkeye says. “It led us to Senator Stern. _He_ passed something of interest — a data crystal, I believe — to this von Strucker tonight. We followed it, and him. Our plan was to subdue him and retrieve the crystal.”

“Ah,” Phil says. He recalls the conversation he had overheard between von Strucker and Stern. He had not seen Hawkeye in the vicinity. “Is your vision that good?” He narrows his eyes. “Or do you read lips?”

“Why, Mr. Coulson, is that one thing you did not know about me?”

Phil huffs. “I know nothing about you, except your exceptional skill with a bow and uncanny ability to appear exactly where no one expects you.”

“I know where you can expect me,” Hawkeye purrs.

Phil pinches his lips, once again refusing to blush. The flirting is very distracting, but then again, that is probably the point.

When he looks back, Hawkeye is staring seriously at him. “Yes,” he says.

Phil blinks. “I am sorry?”

“Yes,” Hawkeye explains. “My vision _is_ that good, and I _do_ read lips.”

“Oh,” Phil says, surprised at the honest answer. He finds himself at a loss for words. “I—”

Hawkeye looks away from him, back to the crowd. “So, how much longer do you suppose we need to stay?”

“Err,” Phil says, feeling thrown. He checks the nearest timepiece. “Another hour, at least, if we do not want to look as though we are leaving early. We will miss dinner, of course.”

Hawkeye shrugs. “I already ate.”

Phil smiles. “And as you were never _officially_ invited, there is likely no place set for you at the table.”

Hawkeye looks at Phil over his shoulder and grins. “There is that, too.”

Phil breathes a laugh. “Very well, an hour then.” He looks up to find Hawkeye watching him. “What?”

“You are ridiculously handsome when you smile,” Hawkeye murmurs.

Phil blushes. “Ah, thank you, but—”

Hawkeye interrupts him. “An hour, then. Whatever shall we do in that time?” His smile turns flirtatious. “Tell me, Mr. Coulson. Do you dance?”

Phil’s mouth opens, closes, and then opens again. “I thought you wanted to avoid the Society papers,” he finally says.

Hawkeye shrugs, his eyes still on Phil’s. “It might be worth it.”

Phil has completely lost control over his ability to blush. He is sure his entire face is on fire. “Yes, well, perhaps it would be best if we leave now. To avoid the rush.”

Hawkeye pouts. “Must we?”

“Yes, yes, come along,” Phil says, and makes his way through the ballroom to the foyer. It is still busy with people, but less so. Phil finds a servant who will convey his regrets to the Lady Trent, and then turns to face Hawkeye again. “I think it would be best if we—”

“Yes, leave separately, of course.” Hawkeye steps in front of him, throwing him an exaggerated wink as he goes. “I shall escape first, if you do not mind. Docking bay ninety-four, was it not?”

And then he is gone. Phil watches the front doors he stepped out of for a moment, and when he does not reappear, Phil shakes his head and turns back to the foyer. 

Hawkeye is not exactly what he had imagined. Somehow, he is even better; witty, beautiful, distracting, and competent. Phil takes several deep breaths and tries to get control over himself and marvels at the time it takes. It has never been difficult to wrestle his emotions or his attraction to someone before — he is not sure why it is now.

Desperate for a distraction, Phil looks in vain for Lady Trent. She is likely inside, dazzling her guests. Phil had never intended to say for dinner — had his tail of Baron von Strucker been successful, he would have already departed. Still, it feels strange to leave now. Phil distracts himself instead by counting to two hundred, and then takes a deep breath, and steps out the door.

He looks around for Hawkeye, but sees no one. There is no carriage leaving, either. Alora’s second moon, Serenity, has risen, but even in the brighter night, Phil’s vision cannot pierce the shadows that lay scattered around the estate. 

Striding forward, Phil raises a hand and calls for a hack chaise. A driver steps forward — not the one who had dropped him off this evening, unfortunately — and gestures to his chaise. Phil nods and follows him.

He seats himself on the cushion, adjusting his coat, and then startles badly when a shadow appears at the door.

“Push over,” a voice says, and then the door is creaking open and Hawkeye is there, hanging off the chaise with one hand, and looking delighted by the knife Phil has pulled instinctively from his jacket.

Phil stares at him for a moment, and then quickly pockets the blade and shuffles over, making room for him upon the seat. “My goodness! Are you mad?”

“Not on a good day,” Hawkeye says with a shrug, jumping into the chaise and closing the door behind him. His hair looks wind-tousled, and his suit is in disarray, but that somehow only manages to exacerbate his attractiveness. He looks at Phil and grins, his eyes bright. “And since I have met you, it is a _very_ good day.”

Phil rolls his eyes, feeling his blush return. “Well, I hope you have reached your quota of ridiculous stunts for the evening.”

Hawkeye looks thoughtful. “I _did_ jump out a four story building into a pool today, if that is what you are asking.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Are you impressed yet?”

“No,” Phil lies, as dryly as he is able. His heart is beating quickly, but there is no need for Hawkeye to be aware of that. “Have you received any word from the Black Widow?”

Hawkeye sobers. “Yes. It is a good thing that we left early — she has tailed von Strucker to his ship, and says he is about ready to leave. She would like us to hurry.”

“Certainly,” Phil nods, and leans forward to initiate the comm to the driver. “Double-speed, please,” he enunciates clearly.

“Y-es- sir,” the comm crackles. Phil feels a jolt as the horse picks up its pace. 

“There,” Phil says, leaning back in his seat. “It should not be long now.”

Hawkeye nods, and leans back as well. His eyes dart around the chaise, to Phil, to the window, and back to Phil again. He taps his fingers on the fabric of his pants. 

Phil bites the inside of his cheek. Hawkeye, one of the most famous and feared assassins, looks adorable. It is also gratifying to know he is not the only one off balance.

“So,” Hawkeye finally says, when he has given the entire chaise a once-over six times. “You promised you would tell me more about yourself?”

“I suppose I did.” Phil shrugs with a smile. “It is not a particularly interesting story — I joined the army when I came of age, received an honourable discharge, and went into business for myself.”

Hawkeye’s gaze narrows. “And yet you do not need to work, if rumours about your family fortunes are true, and you are not simply a do-gooder, you are a spy in disguise.”

“I am not a spy,” Phil protests. Then, he must admit, “Though I do have friends in the military who occasionally offer me work for less-than-public missions.” He gestures with one hand towards his companion. “What about yourself? I was not lying before. I know almost nothing about you, aside from your skills. Is the rumour of the travelling circus true?”

Hawkeye’s face tightens, and he looks away. “I owe you nothing.”

Phil blinks at the sudden vehemence. “That is true,” he says, surprised at the phrasing. “I am sorry.”

Hawkeye shrugs, but he does not look at Phil again until they have reached the spacedocks. The chaise slows, and they disembark. The driver does a double-take when two men exit the carriage instead of one, and Phil adds a hefty tip to his fee.

The man tips his hat and remounts the chaise. Phil leads the way into the docking bay. “This way,” he says to Hawkeye, only a little awkwardly. 

They have not gone far when Hawkeye unexpectedly grabs his elbow. “Stop,” he hisses.

“What?” Phil asks, already pausing. His eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness, but when they do, he sees two shadows tumbling towards them. 

Phil recognizes them and steps in front of Hawkeye, who has his bow unfolded and an arrow on the string. “Denis. Denada,” Phil says in surprise. “What are you doing awake at this hour?”

“We w’re waiting for you!” Denis chirps. “How was th’ party, sir?” 

Denada is staring at Clint, her expression disapproving. “You got the wrong ‘un. That ain’t him.”

Phil chuckles. “No, it is not. This is a friend of mine. Denis, Danada, this is—” He hesitates. “Hawk. Hawk, this is Denis and Denada.” He turns to smile at Denada. “You, my lady, will be happy to know that hats were not mandatory upon attendance.”

He can see her mulling that over. “I still think you shudda had one.”

Phil smiles. “Yes, well, that is enough from you two. Off to bed now.” He retrieves a pouch from his pocket, and gives it to Denis. “That is for breakfast.”

Denis looks surprised. “Oh! Thank you, sir!” He chews on his lower lip. “Won’t ya need help in th’morning, tho?”

Phil shakes his head. “I believe I will be leaving swiftly, Denis.” He winks conspiratorially. “There is much to be done.”

Denis nods hurriedly. “Course, sir! Goo’hunting, then!”

“Thank you, Denis. Denada.” He nods to them both, and then chivvies them off. When they disappear back into the shadows, he turns to Hawkeye, whose bow is gone.

“Thank you for not scaring them,” Phil says, nodding to his empty hands. “I appreciate it. They are good kids.”

Hawkeye looks surprised, and something else — discomforted? He swallows. “I— Of course, I—” He clears his throat. “I would never scare them.”

Phil nods and begins leading the way again. Hawkeye waits a moment, and then follows. “Have you— I mean, have you known them long?”

“Denis and Denada?” Phil asks. “No, I met them this morning. I hope I have not put them in danger, but I _did_ ask them for a description of Baron von Strucker. He does not know them, though, and if all goes well, he will leave this world and never return.”

“Certainly not,” Hawkeye says, his handsome features hardening. “He will harm no more children — not these, nor any others.”

Phil glances back over his shoulder at the tone in his voice. “Of course not.” He wishes to say more, but hesitates, remembering the awkwardness in the chaise.

Instead, he leads the way in silence to his ship. “This is she, _The Lady Lola,_ ” Phil introduces when they arrive. 

Hawkeye steps forward and looks at her. Phil is not sure what he sees. _The Lady Lola_ was once a standard cherry-red G-647 puddlejumper, but Phil has since added a boost to her hyperdrive and a new targeting computer, as well as atmospheric wing-dips. 

“She flies well, even for me,” Phil says, suddenly nervous, “and I am no gifted pilot.” He barely resists the urge to shuffle from side to side.

Hawkeye lifts a hand and lays it on her hull. “She’s beautiful,” he murmurs. 

His voice has changed — it is rougher now, some older accent colouring his tones. 

“I— Thank you,” Phil says. He opens his mouth, but whatever else he was going to say is stifled when a shadow appears, detaching itself from the hull.

Phil’s hand goes to his single remaining knife, but then the shadow speaks, and he relaxes.

“It is about time you arrived,” the Black Widow says. She steps forward into the light, and her face looks grim. “Hurry. He is about to leave.”

 

*

 

The three of them make their way inside the ship as quickly as they are able. The Black Widow is carrying two bags, which she throws into the galley. Phil leads the way to the forward section, settling into the pilot’s seat and keying in the code that will start the engines. It is the work of a moment to ignite them, but it will take them longer to warm. He turns to face the Black Widow “What did you learn?”

She takes the co-pilot’s seat, her eyes alert as she scans the interior of _The Lady Lola_ with a coolness that would be insulting if it came from anyone but her. “What are your intentions if I give you this information? Will you turn us over to the authorities?”

Phil smiles. “I doubt there is any cell which could hold you, and certainly none on Alora. No, I intend to ask you to join me in pursuit.” He glances at Hawkeye. “I believe we have a number of goals in common.”

The Black Widow looks over her shoulder at Hawkeye, who shrugs. “We have talked of the Keys. I trust him.”

Phil feels a warm glow at the words, but the Black Widow simply stares. She narrows her eyes searchingly at Hawkeye, looks back to Phil, and then again to Hawkeye. He makes a face. She raises an eyebrow, he rolls his eyes, and she frowns. He shakes his head. 

Phil watches the byplay with interest. They exchange several more silent gestures, and then finally the Black Widow nods. She turns back to Phil and produces something from her sleeve. “I retrieved this.”

Phil’s breath catches at the sight of the smooth data crystal. It must be the information given to von Strucker from Senator Stern. But does that mean—? He looks from it to the Black Widow, who nods.

“Yes, the Baron von Strucker lives. I took the crystal from him, made a copy, and returned the original to his pocket. He does not know anything amiss has occurred.”

Phil cannot help but smile. “I should never had doubted you, nor your abilities. I apologize.”

The Black Widow looks surprised, and Hawkeye smirks. She glares at him and recovers quickly. “Regardless, we must move quickly. Von Strucker is at his ship, and he will be leaving within minutes. He has filed a flight plan with planet security. I am sure it is fake, as it takes him back to the galactic core, in the direction of Kurak.”

Phil finds himself agreeing with her. “There is no way he has his laboratory on Kurak; it is too heavily populated and there is no way for it to remain secret. You must be right, he must be planning to change direction once he has escaped the Alorian sensor net.”

Hawkeye nods. “Probably just before the jump point.”

Phil turns back to the piloting controls. “Well, we shall have to keep up with him until then. Widow, in which docking station is he berthed?”

“Eighty-seven,” she replies, leaning forward. She peers out the viewport and across the row upon row of space-worthy ships. “There!”

Sure enough, there is a light T-47 lifting off. “I see him,” Phil replies, and glances at his engines. They are warm enough. “Have we filed a flight plan?”

The Black Widow grins. “I submitted one twenty minutes ago.”

“Excellent,” Phil replies. He waits until the T-47 has lifted away, and then rises. “I shall keep us back. Atmospheric traffic will be light this time of night. Hopefully he will not become suspicious.”

The Black Widow says nothing, and standing behind her, Hawkeye shifts in place. His eyes go from Phil’s hands to the T-47, and then back.

Phil does his best to ignore him as he tails the ship as unobtrusively as he can. He thinks he does a decent enough job as they skim the atmosphere, but once they reach space, he is unsure how to proceed. There is not the same cover available, and no other ships lifting off.

“There, use that satellite as cover,” Hawkeye instructs, leaning forward and pointing at an object in the distance.

“Where?” Phil asks, glancing from the seemingly empty space down to his display. The satellite is only a dark dot, but his display shows a three meter long dish with minimal power output, coasting the upper reaches of the thermosphere. There is no way the thirty-five meter long _The Lady Lola_ could hide behind it. “I do not understand.”

“Here, like—” Hawkeye makes a complicated gesture with his hands.

Confused, Phil glances at the Black Widow, who sighs. 

“Hawkeye is a gifted pilot,” she explains, “but he sometimes has difficulty turning his thoughts into words.” She reaches over to still Hawkeye’s hands. “In _English,_ please.”

Phil glances back to Hawkeye, who is making a face, and then to the T-47, which is getting away. Phil bites his lower lip. He has already made the decision to trust these people, and he would not want his lack of piloting skills to doom the mission this close to success.

“Here,” Phil says, standing up from his seat. “You fly her.”

Hawkeye’s mouth drops open in surprise. He stares at Phil. “What?”

Phil gestures to the pilot’s seat. “Sit here, quickly, or we will lose him.”

Hawkeye glances from Phil, to the seat, to the Black Widow, and then back to the seat again. He moves swiftly, sliding into the chair. Thankfully, he and Phil are of a height, and he is able to reach the controls without difficulty.

“Atmospherics, landing, hyperdrive,” Hawkeye murmurs to himself, ghosting his hands over the controls. “Ah.” He keys in a sequence, and _The Lady Lola_ jumps forward. Phil watches with interest as they barrel-roll to the side, tuck in behind the satellite, and then nudge it forward using the primary deflector shield. The satellite jumps, and then, escaping the gravitational pull of the planet behind them, leads the way forward.

The Black Widow grins and begins tapping at the controls. “I can log into the satellite mainframe and redirect its collison network to project a field in front of us,” she explains to Phil over her shoulder, “which will confuse Baron von Strucker’s sensors if he attempts to scan behind the satellite.”

Phil blinks. “But will the Alorian government not be alerted that one of their satellites has been hijacked?”

Hawkeye shakes his head. “No, that is not an Alorian satellite, that is a Stark Industries Two-Hundred, and it has been replaced as of last month with the two-fifties.” He points to the satellite, where Phil can _barely_ make out the Stark Tech logo painted on the front. “All the two-hundreds will be rounded up and destroyed sometime next quarter.”

Phil stares. “Amazing. Surely we cannot fly this all the way to the jump point, though?”

The Black Widow frowns, still typing away at Phil’s computer. He tries to follow her progress, but she appears to be accessing subroutes he did not even know he _had_. “Most likely not. The satellite moves too slowly, even with us pushing it, and though it can disguise our presence, it will still be recognizable as a planetary satellite. We will have to leave it behind when we clear the spacelane around Serena. However, by that point, I should be able to hack into von Strucker’s on-board computer, and retrieve his true flight plan.”

Phil huffs out a breath and leans back. “Incredible.”

Hawkeye looks over his shoulder and grins. “Are you impressed yet?”

Phil smiles. “I confess I am.” He straightens. “I suppose I shall go into the galley and make something warm, since you two have the situation well in hand. Tea? Caf?”

“Peppermint tea, if you have it,” the Black Widow says, still bent over the computer, her fingers flying as she types.

Hawkeye makes a face, manually adjusting their course to keep them hidden behind the satellite. “Caf for me, please.”

Phil nods. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Two cream, no sugar,” he says, and then shoots Phil a cheeky grin over his shoulder. “I am sweet enough.”

The Black Widow rolls her eyes, visible from even where Phil is standing, and Hawkeye chuckles. Phil walks back to the galley shaking his head.

Well, even if the two are not intimate — and he has no proof that they are — they certainly know each other well enough to tease.

Phil pushes that thought from his mind, and concentrates on brewing caf and making the Black Widow’s tea. He returns to the forward section after a few minutes to place it all in the warmer. Both the Black Widow and Hawkeye are serious now, peering intently at their screens and then back to the T-47 still in front of them. Phil looks himself, and sees that they are halfway to the jump point at the edge of the Alorian System. 

“There,” the Black Widow says, satisfaction evident in her voice. Phil looks down, and sees a list of coordinates spilling across the screen. “Here are his most recent jump points, and this,” she indicates the screen, “is the slipstream corridor he will be using next.”

Phil plots the coordinates against his mental map of the galaxy. “It looks as though his exit point will be somewhere near the old Slavic region.” 

The Black Widow nods. “Near Sokovia, I think. In fact, Sokovia Prime may be his intended destination.”

“It is cold, remote, and sparsely populated,” Phil agrees. “I think you are right. Very well done. I must pass this information on to my friend, so he will be able to coordinate a concentrated strike.”

Hawkeye looks troubled. “How long will that take?”

Phil sighs. “A day, perhaps two.”

The Black Widows makes a derisive sound. “That is too long.”

Hawkeye looks as though he agrees. “We should go _now._ ”

Phil holds up one hand. “Wait a moment. I agree that time should not be wasted. Let me contact my friend immediately, so he can begin putting together the force that will be needed. After that, I intend to follow in von Strucker’s wake and journey to the planet, whether it be to Sokovia Prime or another close by. I will do what I can do investigate the situation, and get the children out safely, but,” he says, pursing his lips, “this is _not_ why the two of you began tracking Baron von Strucker. He is not your enemy — you are searching for the people who paid for the assassination of Galactic Alliance Key Holders, who duped you into throwing the Alliance into chaos. This mission has nothing to do with that. It is mine, and mine alone.”

The Black Widow scoffs. “Do you think so little of us?” 

Hawkeye says nothing, but his shoulders are tense.

Phil sighs. “I am trying _not_ to think,” he admits, “or make assumptions. I have followed both of your careers for so long that I feel as if I know you, but I do not. This meeting has demonstrated that to me above all else. You are both braver, more skilled, and more impetuous than I had envisioned. I told you about the children because I needed to give you a reason not to kill Baron von Strucker when you were obviously angry, and moving without thinking. I am trying to stop and think now. Do you truly wish to come with me, and follow von Strucker, even if means the other trail may go cold?”

Hawkeye and the Black Widow glance at each other for a long moment, and then Hawkeye sighs.

“Mr. Coulson,” he starts, “you are not the only one who has made assumptions here today. You are right in that we have not be stopping to think as much as we should have been lately, as much as we used to — but you are wrong to believe for even _one moment_ that we would put our own personal vendetta against the lives of any child. We have both—” He cuts himself off. “We _want_ to help. It is the right thing to do. Let us.”

Phil stares at him. There is a lump in his throat, but he swallows past it. “Yes, of course. I simply wanted to make sure that you knew what you were doing.”

Hawkeye smiles, his eyes bright again. “We do.”

Phil looks to the Black Widow, who nods. “Very well,” Phil says. “I will contact my friend and pass along the coordinates, and then we will go. _The Lady Lola_ is not as fast as von Strucker’s ship in hyperspace, but we should not arrive far behind him.”

Hawkeye and the Black Widow shoot him matching grins. The ship stays hidden behind the satellite while Phil places a call to Triskelion, and the two assassins remain silent while he speaks with Director Fury on the comm.

“Mr. Coulson,” Nick greets, warmth and worry mingling in his tone. “What do you have for me?”

Phil passes along the information he has acquired, while breezing past how he acquired it. “I will be following von Strucker when he jumps. I shall meet you at those coordinates.”

He can hear the frown in his friend’s voice. “Be careful. You do not know what awaits you. I do not like to think of you taking on an entire base by yourself.”

Phil carefully bites back his smile, looking to his left and right at his team. Hawkeye and the Black Widow smile back at him. “I will watch myself,” he promises. “Hurry, if you can.”

“I will,” Nick promises. “I have one ship I will send immediately, and I will ready the rest of the force. This target is high priority. Genetic manipulation is a serious crime, and one that is well within S.H.I.E.L.D.’s jurisdiction.” He hesitates, then adds, “Good hunting, my friend.”

“You as well,” Phil says back, and ends the call.

When he glances back at Hawkeye, the other man is shaking his head. “Nick Fury,” he says, disbelievingly. “Your ‘friend’ is Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. _Nick Fury._ ”

“He is,” Phil says mildly, privately glad to have one over on Hawkeye. “We served together in the military, and have since remained in touch.”

The Black Widow leans back in her chair. “After Cal’brian?”

Phil stills. 

The Black Widow shrugs casually, keeping her shoulders loose, but Phil notes the sharpness of her gaze. “The details are unclear as to what actually happened there.”

Phil finds his voice. “The military records are sealed,” he agrees, his voice scratchy, but thankfully even. “To speak of it is treason.” He does not want, or need, to imagine what would happen to her if the Galactic Alliance learned she knew about Cal’brian. 

Banner’s experiments had been illegal, but funded by the military. No one wanted that exposed. 

She raises an interested eyebrow, but looks back to her computer screens. “Very well.”

Phil doubts very much that he has satisfied her, and decides to counter with an offensive of his own. “Yelena has often said you like to push.”

Her breath catches. “Why, Mr. Coulson,” she says slowly, her shoulders tense. “You _are_ full of surprises.”

Phil inclines his head. “Are not we all?”

Surprisingly, the Black Widow smiles, and turns around to glance at Hawkeye. “Oh, we _are._ ”

Hawkeye blushes, and Phil regards them both curiously. Before he can say anything, though, the T-47 ahead of them reaches the jump point, pauses, and then vaults forward into hyperspace. Phil watches the tiny ship become enveloped in a slipstream corridor and vanish.

“How long should we wait?” Hawkeye asks quietly, after a moment.

“At least ninety seconds,” Phil murmurs back. “It will take that long for his sensors to recalibrate to the slipstream he has created, and for him to travel far enough that our entry will go unnoticed.”

Hawkeye nods, his fingers ready. Phil whispers the countdown out loud, and looks over at the Black Widow to see that she is nodding along.

“Eighty-six,” Phil says finally, “eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty- _nine_ —”

Hawkeye slams his finger down on the hyperspace control. _The Lady Lola_ jerks forward, the stars around them lengthening. They pitch downward into darkness, the pure black that is their slipstream corridor through hyperspace, where they move beyond the speed of light.

Phil forces himself to take a deep breath as the cabin lighting dims. The air between the three of them feels closer, more intimate, than it had a moment ago. 

“How long until we reach our destination?” Phil asks the Black Widow.

She taps at the computer. “Six hours, by the looks of it. The navcomputer agrees that we will emerge somewhere in the Sokovian System, but not precisely where.”

Phil nods. “That is more than enough time for each of us to get some rest.” 

Hawkeye and the Black Widow share a look. Phil chuckles at the distrust in their shared expression. “Do not worry, you may sleep in shifts. _The Lady Lola_ was not built for passengers, after all. I have only one bunk. I will let whoever you so choose rest first, and will take the settee in the galley myself.”

Hawkeye shakes his head. “We could not put you out of your own bunk, Coulson. I will take the settee.”

Phil frowns. “Absolutely not. I could not rest comfortably knowing a guest did not have their own bed.”

Hawkeye huffs. “Do you know what I have—”

“I will take the bunk,” the Black Widow says, standing as she interrupts him. “After all, I am not as difficult as my friend here, and will not refuse a comfortable situation when it is freely offered.” She inclines her head. “Thank you, Mr. Coulson.” 

Hawkeye rolls his eyes. “You wound me, sister of my soul.”

Phil shakes his head, turning away from Hawkeye to gesture the Black Widow forward. “This way, Miss Widow.”

She laughs lightly as she follows him through the ship. _The Lady Lola_ is not large, and it is only a few steps to the galley, and then a few more to the bedroom located next to the head. “I think it is time you start calling me Natasha — or did Yelena not tell you my first name?”

Phil frowns as they reach the bedroom. “She did not,” he admits, stepping forward into the room. Thankfully Phil is of a neat disposition, and the area does not require much cleaning. He does strip the bed, however, before moving to the linen closet to retrieve fresh sheets. “But I could not address you so informally. It would not be proper.”

She smiles, waiting in the doorway while he arranges the room to his satisfaction. “Ah, yes. Propriety. I suggest Miss Romanova, then. Would that satisfy you?”

“It would,” Phil admits. He finishes straightening the bed, and then gestures her forward. “Here you are, Miss Romanova. The room is small, I regret to say, but very comfortable. If you need anything at all, please do not hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, Mr. Coulson,” Miss Romanova says. She hesitates, then adds, “He meant what he said, you know. I am like a sister to him, and he a brother. This is true despite whatever Yelena, or anyone else, has said.”

Phil refuses to blush — absolutely and completely. “Of course,” he says, a little stiffly.

She smiles at him, and then curtsies politely. “Thank you for the use of your bedroom, Mr. Coulson. Sleep well.”

He nods at her and then leaves, refusing to allow his mind to run over her confession. So, the Black Widow and Hawkeye are _not_ intimate? 

No — he will not think on it. It does not matter in any way. 

Closing the door behind him, Phil crosses to the head. The laundry facilities are there, the waterless washer and dryer, and behind that is the engine room and the cargo hold. _The Lady Lola_ is a small, personal transport designed for two — preferably a couple, since she only has one bed — and does not boast much cargo space. Still, there is enough room for a single hovercycle, Phil’s grav-lift, and another storage area full of boxes. Phil knows he has enough dried food on board to feed the three of them for weeks — three and a half, if they stretch it. 

Not that they will need to. They will be arriving at the Sokovian System in a few hours, and will see what there is to discover. Hopefully, Baron von Strucker will lead them to his secret base. If he does not, they may have another jaunt in front of them.

Running the sheets through the laundry, Phil relieves himself in the head and then walks back to the galley, dismissing such thoughts from his mind. One step at a time — that is what the army taught him. Hawkeye is still visible in the forward section, piloting the ship, and Phil busies himself in the galley, putting away what he does not need. He washes out the caf machine, dries the dishes, and wipes down the table.

He is just stopping for a moment to yawn into his hand when Hawkeye appears beside him.

Phil must be more tired than he thought, because instead of being alarmed by the sudden presence, he merely blinks at Hawkeye sleepily. 

“It is time for bed, Mr. Coulson,” Hawkeye says. He takes the rag from his hand. “I will do this. It is your turn to sleep.”

Phil shakes his head, even though he finds himself stumbling towards the settee. “You are not my valet, sir. I can manage well enough on my own.”

Hawkeye chuckles roughly. “I would believe you, except that here you are, nearly falling over in exhaustion. I think you need more looking after than you admit, Mr. Coulson.”

Phil frowns. He _is_ tired, the events of the day catching up with him, and that must be why he opens his mouth and says, “I cannot determine whether you like me or not. Have I wronged you in some way?”

Hawkeye says nothing, but he does move forward, and Phil finds himself divested of his jacket and handkerchief. He pats his pockets, confused, and finds that he still has his throwing knives — _all_ of his knives, as a matter of fact, including the one he had thrown at the Black Widow earlier that evening.

Hawkeye moves around the small space with ease, directing Phil towards the settee. “We will have to work on your accuracy skills,” he murmurs, ignoring Phil’s previous question. “There is no way you would have injured the Widow with that.”

“The point was simply to distract,” Phil defends, but then sighs. “Though I suppose I should not refuse advice from such a notable source.” He reaches out for Hawkeye’s arm, fingers catching on the fabric of his suit, and looks up into his eyes. “I am sorry for mentioning the circus earlier. Please forgive me.”

Hawkeye’s eyes are beautiful, clear and steady, but sad. “Rest,” he says, instead of answering.

Phil sighs and sits, and then toes off his shoes as he lays down. Hawkeye draws a clean sheet up around him, which distracts Phil from his guilt. How had Hawkeye managed to get into his linen closet? _When_ had he? 

Phil opens his mouth to ask, but Hawkeye beats him too it. “Shh,” he murmurs. “Sleep.” He tucks the edges of the sheets around Phil, his fingers sure and careful. 

“You are not my valet,” Phil thinks he says back. He is not sure. He is asleep.

 

*

 

Phil blinks awake to the smell of caf, fresh brewed and still burbling, and another presence in his galley.

“Good morning,” the Black Widow — no, Miss Romanova — says with a smile. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did,” Phil admits, sitting up. He looks around the galley, noting the small changes — there are cups on the counter, and packages of dried foodstuffs laid out. Rather than feel intruded upon, he finds himself smiling at the evidence of someone else in his space. “Did you as well?”

“Yes, thank you,” she says, turning as the door to the head opens and Hawkeye steps out. 

He looks fresh and newly showered, his hair sticking up every which way. He is dressed in a daysuit of exceptional quality, but the collar is damp, and a drop of water beads down from his forehead. Phil cannot help but trace it with his eyes.

“Er, good morning,” Hawkeye says, looking startled at the number of people staring at him.

Phil clears his throat as subtly as he is able and looks away. Miss Romanova laughs lightly. “Did you leave enough water for me?”

Hawkeye blushes. “Yes, I think so.”

“We should have more than enough for three showers,” Phil says, capturing his courage and looking up. “The tank was filled on Alora when I landed. Please.” He gestures Miss Romanova forward. She is dressed in loose-fitted sleep clothes, and has obviously not yet attended to her toilette.

She nods her thanks and steps towards the head, slipping around Hawkeye who moves out of her way and into the galley. “Did you — ah — did you sleep well, Mr. Coulson?” Hawkeye asks.

“Yes, I did, thank you,” Phil replies, raising his hands above his head to stretch the kinks from his back. There are not many, for the settee _is_ comfortable, but he is not as young as he used to be. “And yourself?” He blinks and frowns. “You _did_ sleep, did you not?”

Hawkeye clears his throat. There is the faint hint of a blush on his cheeks. Could the shower have been that warm? “Er — yes. I did sleep, and well. Nata — I mean, the Black Widow relieved me after several hours. She did not want to shower earlier in case she woke you.”

Phil frowns and looks around for the time. “That was not necessary, she could have woken me. Are we still in hyperspace?”

“Yes,” Hawkeye confirms, “you are more than welcome to check for yourself, if you like. We are en route to Sokovia, still behind Baron von Strucker.” He gestures towards the forward section.

Phil looks around the corner towards the piloting controls, and sees the blinking light that indicates they are currently on autopilot. He could check the specifics, but shakes his head. “I trust you.”

Hawkeye swallows, and turns back to the galley. “The caf is ready,” he says roughly. “You prefer one cream, one sugar, do you not?”

“I do,” Phil confirms, surprised. He had not thought that Hawkeye noticed yesterday. “Does Miss Romanova want a cup? Or should we make her some more tea, perhaps?”

“She prefers caf in the morning,” Hawkeye confirms, though he looks surprised. “She told you her last name?”

Phil feels himself colour. “She did. We spoke briefly last night.”

“Ah,” Hawkeye says. 

Phil clears his throat, well aware that Hawkeye has not extended the same privilege. “The caf is ready, did you say?”

“Er, yes,” Hawkeye confirms, turning and handing Phil his cup. 

Their fingers brush briefly, and Phil ruthlessly squashes the pleasure he feels from that small touch. “Thank you.”

“It is no problem,” Hawkeye says softly. He clears his throat and turns away. Behind them, the sound of the shower shuts off, and then Miss Romanova exits, turning immediately to the bedroom, dressed in nothing except a large towel with her hair pinned up.

Phil and Hawkeye both immediately look away.

“Ah, the head is free,” Hawkeye says finally, awkwardness in his voice. He clears his throat, and then gestures to the side, where Phil can see a garment bag hanging on the wall. “I took the liberty of pulling a few clothing options for you before dressing myself.” He shrugs, drawing Phil’s attention to the beautiful material of his suit. It is a stunning light grey in colour, with a dark blue handkerchief that brings out his eyes. “Since we do not know what we will find on Sokovia, I felt it best to dress as civilians.”

“I agree,” Phil says, his throat suddenly dry. “I appreciate your assistance, but I meant what I said last night: I do not need a valet.”

Hawkeye gives him a brittle smile. “I would argue that you do.” He shakes his head. “How _is_ it that you are out here without a valet, or without any servants at all. Does your family approve?”

“They do not,” Phil admits, cradling his caf. “They wish that I would ‘cease this nonsense’ and return home, invest in an estate, and perhaps marry.” Phil shrugs. “That has never been my desire. I am here because I wish to be here, and because I feel as if I have some good to contribute.”

Hawkeye looks troubled. “Managing an estate well _does_ contribute. It provides a home and a family for many, not to mention stable employment.”

Phil looks at him in surprise. He had not expected the legendary assassin Hawkeye to have such an opinion. “You are right,” Phil admits after a moment. “There is nothing wrong with running an estate, especially if one does so well, but I cannot help but think that one must truly enjoy that life to manage it properly.” He shrugs helplessly. “I do not.”

“I am certainly not one to judge, seeing as, without your presence, the Baron von Strucker would be dead, and the children’s fate sealed. I am glad you are here,” Hawkeye says, and then hesitates. “I simply find it difficult to reconcile who you are with _you_ — Mr. Phil Coulson, of the Caladonia Coulsons.”

Phil remembers what he said last night, about acting under assumptions. “If it helps,” Phil offers hesitantly, “you may think of me as Lieutenant Coulson, for that is who I was for many years, or as Captain Phil Coulson of _The Lady Lola, _if we are to be navy precise.” He smiles self-deprecatingly. “My childhood valet called me Master Phillip, of course, and my sister denoted me ‘Philia,’ though I would beg you not to use that name.”__

__Hawkeye’s face dims. “No,” he says roughly. “That would not help at all.”_ _

__“Oh,” Phil says, feeling himself at a loss for words. He waits, but Hawkeye says nothing. He simply stares down at his caf mug with a deep-seated frown._ _

__“Excuse me,” Phil finally says awkwardly, finishing his caf and placing the cup in the sink. “That was delicious, thank you.” He skirts past Hawkeye without waiting for a reply, and walks to the head and the small shower there._ _

__Water is at a premium on a spaceship, as it always is, but Phil _had_ refueled and restocked at Alora, as he said, and there is more than enough for three showers. He keeps his short regardless, despite the urge to linger, and feels like a dirty man when he realizes that Hawkeye was likely here, standing naked in exactly the same place he is standing naked, only a few minutes ago._ _

__Phil turns the shower off quickly after that, and shaves in front of the mirror with a razor and foam. It is absurd for him to be so attracted to the man when Hawkeye so clearly has such conflicted feelings towards him._ _

__Phil’s opinion is, unfortunately, not nearly conflicted enough. He admires Hawkeye on almost every level. He only hopes the man can decide what he wants from Phil; — at the moment, his attitude is decidedly hot-and-cold._ _

__The suit Hawkeye had picked for him is practical and simply cut, a thick black fabric that will be well suited to Sokovia Prime’s low temperatures. With it is a classic cream-coloured button-up, shined shoes, and a grey handkerchief that Phil realizes will match the colour of Hawkeye’s suit._ _

__Phil blushes, but as Miss Romanova is still dressing, there is of course no way to alter the selection. All of his clothing is hanging with care in the bedroom. That aside, to change would be rude, and Phil aims to _improve_ relations between himself and Hawkeye, not damage them._ _

__Smoothing a hand down the length of his suit, Phil straightens his cuffs, and then steps back into the main section of the ship._ _

__Hawkeye is again sitting at the pilot’s controls, his attention apparently focused on the hyperdrive slipstream. Phil debates finding some other work with which to busy himself, but the fact is that _The Lady Lola_ is small, and there is really not much else to do. _ _

__Phil resigns himself to awkwardness. “Has there been any indication that von Strucker has noticed us?” he asks, coming forward and settling himself into the co-pilot’s seat._ _

__Hawkeye shakes his head without looking over. “No. His course continues uninterrupted. The navcomputer says we should be arriving at the Sokovian System in just under an hour.”_ _

__Phil frowns. “How long did I sleep?” he asks. He feels quite rested._ _

__“Seven hours,” Hawkeye confirms. “The trip is taking longer than we had thought. Von Strucker slowed down at approximately hour three, shortly before Miss Romanova woke up. I matched speeds with him and noted that he sent off two data transmissions. Miss Romanova was only able to decrypt one of them.” He nods to the line of text visible on one screen._ _

__“‘The day has arrived. Prepare all sections. Ready the twins,’” Phil reads out loud, feeling his blood run cold. “I do not like the sound of that.”_ _

__“Neither do I,” Hawkeye agrees grimly. “There is no choice but to go forward, though.”_ _

__Phil regards him silently. There _is_ a choice, of course. There always is. It is apparently not one that Hawkeye is contemplating, though, and to be honest, not one that Phil would either._ _

__Hawkeye seems to sense his thoughts, for he scowls. “I will not leave those children to die, Coulson.”_ _

__“I know you would not,” Phil murmurs. “I did not doubt you.”_ _

__Hawkeye looks tense. They sit in silence for a moment, and then unexpectedly, Hawkeye says, “It is not quite fair, I realize, that I know so much about you but you know next to nothing about me.”_ _

__Phil shakes his head. “Fair does not enter the equation. It was wrong of me to ask you for details.”_ _

__Hawkeye rolls his eyes. “You mean it was not _proper,_ ” he says. Phil cannot decide if he is teasing or genuinely upset._ _

__Phil meets his eye. “No, it was not,” he agrees seriously. “My life is public record, but yours is not. You need your secrets, secrets you do not trust me enough to share. I understand that.”_ _

__Hawkeye frowns. “I trust you.”_ _

__Phil cannot help but make a face. “No, you do not, and that is normal. Our association is new. We are involved in a mission of great danger, but that does not mean that—”_ _

__“But I _do_ trust you,” Hawkeye interrupts. “I trust you with my life.”_ _

__Phil meets his eye. “And I respect that, but the fact remains that I do not even know your name.”_ _

__Hawkeye shifts awkwardly in his seat, turning to glance back out the viewport. “That is personal.”_ _

__“I know,” Phil says, unable to hold back a smile. “It is your _name_.”_ _

__“No, I mean—” Hawkeye blows out a breath. He glances at Phil and then away again. “It is Clint.”_ _

__Phil blinks. “I— I meant what I said, you do not need to tell me. Truly.”_ _

__“I am aware of that, but...” Hawkeye hesitates. “I want you to know. My name is Clint.”_ _

__Phil frowns. “I cannot call you ‘Clint.’”_ _

__Hawkeye rolls his eyes. “Of course you cannot.” He licks his lips, and tightens his hand. “Very well, my last name is—”_ _

__A sudden explosion knocks them sideways. Phil clings to the side of his seat. “What was—?”_ _

__“Slipstream activated explosions!” Hawkeye shouts, hanging on to the pilot’s console to keep himself upright. The internal dampeners whine in protest at the extreme shift in momentum. Phil pulls up the ship’s systems, keying in his override and readjusting the energy dispersion. The ship rightens._ _

__Hawkeye wastes no time, expanding their sensor array and leaning forward to peer out the viewport._ _

__“Did von Strucker drop them? Did he see us behind him?” Phil asks._ _

__Hawkeye shakes his head. “I do not believe so, there was no indication that he knew he was being followed. He may have dropped them out of precaution, especially if he is flying towards a secret base, or they may be mines previously laid to stop ships from coming in to investigate this location.” He curses and sits back in his seat, fingers flying over the controls. “I am going to drop us back to half-speed and see if we can sense any more surprises.” He shakes his head. “I did not even see them.”_ _

__Phil touches the side of his arm. “It was not your fault.”_ _

__Hawkeye hesitates, but then glances towards him and nods. Some of the tension seeps out of his shoulders._ _

__Phil nods back, then looks towards his display. The sensors are picking up nothing, but Phil has an idea. He leans forward and begins looking for unexpected variations in the gravity net. To stay anchored in hyperspace, a slipstream activated mine would need to continuously ‘roll’ with the gravity net generated by the Sokovian star, or any other gravity well nearby. Phil had learned how to search for such variations while serving aboard the galactic alliance cruiser _Carter._ The pirates of Gav’vor might be vermin, but they _were_ intelligent, and had avoided the military mines for years with such techniques. _ _

__The door to the bedroom slides open and Phil looks back to see Miss Romanova hurrying forward, still fastening her dress over her shoulders. “What has happened?” she asks, glancing at the readouts. “Slipstream grenades?”_ _

__Phil looks back to his controls, though he cannot help but note that her loose-fitted, cream-coloured dress matches the colour of his button-up. The three of them must make a striking group._ _

__At the pilot’s seat, Hawkeye is nodding. “We think so, but I do not—” He pauses as Phil finishes his calculations and brings the enhanced sensors up on screen. He whistles. “Well.”_ _

__Phil nods. There is now a network of dots visible around the Sokovian System._ _

__Miss Romanova leans forward. “This distribution is not designed to interrupt a ship of this size.” She taps one of the dots. “These are laid for capital ships, either cruisers or destroyers.”_ _

__Phil realizes she is right. “He is preparing for a larger invading force.”_ _

__Miss Romanova nods. “If those mines caught a cruiser midship, the damage they could do would be catastrophic.”_ _

__“I will send a coded transmission to Director Fury,” Phil says, already bringing up the screen. “I will warn him.”_ _

__“There may be more traps laid in the Sokovian System,” Hawkeye points out. “We cannot scan normal space from here.”_ _

__“We should drop out of hyperspace,” Phil decides. “Approach the system via conventional drive. _The Lady Lola_ has been upgraded with sixth-generation thrusters. It would only take us an hour to reach Sokovia.”_ _

__“That hour is time we may not have,” Miss Romanova counters._ _

__Phil shakes his head. “We cannot help the children if we are dead or captured. We are no good to anyone then.”_ _

__She looks as if she is about to argue, but finally nods. Hawkeye bites his lip. “We should get closer first,” he says, and gestures to the screen. “We know where the mines are now. We can avoid them.”_ _

__Phil frowns. “Dropping in and out of hyperspace to continuously adjust our course will deplete the majority of our fuel. I have extra, but it would not last long. We must make it back to Alliance controlled space.”_ _

__Hawkeye shakes his head. “I can adjust our course while in hyperspace.” At Phil’s disbelieving look, he goes on. “I know it is dangerous, but it _can_ be done. _The Lady Lola_ is small and highly maneuverable — it will be easier with her.”_ _

__Phil looks at him, and judges the sincerity in his tone. “If you are sure.”_ _

__“I am,” Hawkeye promises, his face serious. “I can do this.”_ _

__“Then I believe you,” Phil decides. He looks over his shoulder at the Black Widow, who is watching them both with a smile on her face. “Miss Romanova, you should probably sit down. I suspect our journey will become quite rough.”_ _

__She nods and steps back towards the galley, fishing the seatbelt out of the settee in the galley and belting herself in. Phil swallows and leans forward, gripping the edges of the co-pilot’s station. “Very well, Hawkeye. Take us out.”_ _

__Hawkeye shoots him a grin and spins back towards his controls. He rests his fingers on the engine controls and glances down to the sensor net. “All secure? I will change course in five — four — three — two—”_ _

__Phil braces himself as the ship bucks, slows dramatically, and then spins around. Hawkeye glances at the readouts, waits a beat, and then launches them forward again. The ship vibrates as they exit the slipstream corridor and enter another. Hyperspace is a network of _n_ -dimensional space, where the normal boundaries of distance and time are subverted. Ships survive the journey by creating slipstream corridors — tunnels through which a ship may traverse the dangers of hyperspace without becoming lost. _ _

__Changing course while in hyperspace means dropping out of a slipstream corridor and then into another, all without falling into the unprotected _n_ -space between. To do so would mean becoming lost — a ship would fall through space and time like the mystical _Howling Commando,_ the cruiser Steve Rogers was on when he vanished after the Battle of The Red Skull. _ _

__Phil trusts Hawkeye when he says he can do it, however. Everyone knows the risks. He would not have offered if it could not be done._ _

__Sure enough, the ship holds. It shudders slightly, and then again when Hawkeye once again slows them, changes their direction, and pushes them forward again. He does it once more, sweat breaking out along his brow, and then leans back with a sigh._ _

__Phil glances down at the readouts. They are on course for Sokovia, and their way is clear. He looks over at Hawkeye. “Well done.”_ _

__Hawkeye blows out a breath. “Now it is a matter of surviving normal space.”_ _

__Phil nods. “One step at a time.”_ _

__Because of their course corrections, they reach Sokovia perpendicular to von Strucker’s exit point a mere ten minutes later. Phil leans forward as they come out of hyperspace — the T-47 appears on their sensor display immediately, on course for the fourth planet from the Sokovian sun._ _

__Miss Romanova detaches herself from the settee and come forward, peering over Phil’s shoulder. “Sokovia Prime,” she says._ _

__Phil nods, gazing out the viewport himself. Sokovia Prime is a cold, sparsely populated world with only one major city, the capital Novi Grad. The system once sat at the heart of the Slavic Empire — the locals used to say, “Sokovia is nowhere special, but it is on the _way_ to everywhere special.” All of that changed with the Great War and the creation of the Galactic Alliance. Officially, the system is now under Galactic Alliance control, but where it had once been central, now it is on the outlying areas. The population and economy suffered as an effect._ _

__Phil frowns, remembering his own brief time on Sokovia Prime. “The army used to perform maneuvers here, occasionally. To help during the periods of unrest.”_ _

__Hawkeye nods. “I took a contract in Novi Grad for an arms dealer once. Rumour linked him to the terrorists who took Tony Stark. Had to work around the army.”_ _

__Phil looks over at him in surprise. “You killed a member of the Ten Rings?”_ _

__Hawkeye shrugs. “It was hardly my best shot — only three hundred yards.”_ _

__Phil shakes his head. “I am surprised you are still alive.”_ _

__Hawkeye grins. “So is everybody.”_ _

__“Boys,” Miss Romanova interrupts. “Look.”_ _

__She points, and Phil and Hawkeye follow the gesture with their eyes. Their smiles dim. “They are evacuating,” Hawkeye says._ _

__Phil knows he is right. As they approach the planet, they can see tens of ships, most of them the size of the T-47, but a couple larger, running away from the planet. Sokovia Prime does not have the traffic of Alora, or of Triskelion — this many ships in orbit is unusual. “Do you think it is von Strucker’s people?”_ _

__Miss Romanova nods. “It has to be. Perhaps he knew someone was behind him, or perhaps we are simply too late.”_ _

__Hawkeye shakes his head. “No, they must have had sensors on the hyperspace mines,” he says grimly. “They might have been in the process of leaving, but when we triggered them, they increased their efforts.”_ _

__“If that is true,” Phil says slowly, “then we may yet be in time. They may not have completely liquidated the laboratory.”_ _

__Both Hawkeye and the Black Widow are silent. Phil knows they are grappling with the knowledge that they may have doomed the children, instead of rescuing them. He knows he certainly is._ _

__“There is nothing for it but to try,” Miss Romanova says finally._ _

__Phil nods. “I agree. Take us down to the planet, Hawkeye, please, but be careful. Do you think we can avoid the fleeing ships?”_ _

__Hawkeye squints at the screen. “I believe so.”_ _

__Miss Romanova leans forward. “Remember that von Strucker and his people seem to believe that a large fleet is coming. They will not be looking for one small ship.”_ _

__“That is true,” Phil admits. “In that case, we should proceed as if we have legitimate business on Novi Grad.”_ _

__The others agree with him. Hawkeye takes them closer but approaches the planet from the far side, well away from the smaller ships. An upper atmosphere docking bot scans them._ _

__Phil activates the comm. “Phil Coulson of _The Lady Lola,_ ” he says, “requesting docking space on Novi Grad.”_ _

__“Stand by,” the docking bot says, whirring. After a moment, it speaks once more. “You are cleared for docking bay three. Proceed at half-impulse speed.”_ _

__“Acknowledged,” Phil says. He gestures, and Hawkeye takes the ship forward. They cross into the atmosphere and begin their descent. The cloud cover is thick and, below it, the ground is covered in white snow._ _

__“Beautiful,” Miss Romanova murmurs._ _

__Hawkeye makes a face. “It looks cold.”_ _

__Phil chuckles. “I have coats and jackets we can use. I suggest we adhere to Hawkeye’s prior proposition and remain in civilian clothes.” He taps his computer at the co-pilot’s station. “The city appears well, nothing out of the ordinary. I do see some traffic coming from the northeast, though.”_ _

__Miss Romanova presses in, looking over his shoulder. “Yes, there,” she agrees, pointing. “About two kilometers from the city limits.”_ _

__Phil nods. “We can land at docking bay three here,” he demonstrates with one finger, “and then take public transport to this location.” He draws an imaginary line to the northeast section of the city. “Once there, we could rent a hovercraft, I suppose.”_ _

__Miss Romanova straightens. “We should pack a lunch and pretend we are going out for a picnic. The weather appears clear.”_ _

__“A picnic in the snow?” Hawkeye asks with a frown. “Truly?”_ _

__Miss Romanova chuckles. “There is always snow in Novi Grad. What do you think the local inhabitants do? Remain inside with their heaters all day?”_ _

__“I would,” Hawkeye grumbles, but then turns his attention back to piloting. The docking bay is coming into view now, and he handles the controls with a grace Phil knows he could never duplicate._ _

__Hawkeye clearly does not need any assistance, so Phil stands and helps Miss Romanova gather supplies. He does not have a picnic basket, but they load the grav-lift with blankets and coats, and find something to fit them all. Phil has something for himself, of course, and there is a rather stylish dark wool full-length coat for Hawkeye. Miss Romanova has a shawl that she pulls from her bag, which she says will warm her adequately._ _

__Once _The Lady Lola_ is docked, Hawkeye shakes his head and stands from the pilot’s chair. “This is why people accuse you of being cold blooded,” he teases._ _

__She laughs. “I love the snow,” she informs Phil cheerfully. “I do not have a chance to see it enough, since it is rare that someone needs to be assassinated while ice fishing.”_ _

__“There was that mob baron who liked to ski on Moo Yun,” Hawkeye points out._ _

__She hums. “True, but, in the end, we burned the chalet down.”_ _

__Hawkeye nods happily. “Good times.”_ _

__Phil chuckles. He must be mad, to have thrown his lot in with such people. “Let us go.”_ _

__They descend the ramp into the docking bay. Phil notes several roustabouts scattered around the hanger, most younger and thinner than Denis and Denada. He signals the two smallest closer, and does his best to ignore their wide eyes and hungry expressions._ _

__“Refuel her and fill up the water tanks, please, and be swift about it. I shall give you five chits now, and another ten later, if I find it done to my satisfaction.” He hands them a bag._ _

__They stare at him shocked. Finally, one — the younger one, Phil thinks — gathers her courage. “Yessir, right-o-way, sir,” she says, her hands white-knuckled on the bag. They dash away, and Phil forces himself not to watch them scurry off._ _

__“You will attract attention, spending money like that,” Miss Romanova says, but she is smiling._ _

__Phil shrugs. “It is worth it.”_ _

__Hawkeye clears his throat, his gaze down. “We should hurry. Please.”_ _

__Miss Romanova nods, and puts her hand briefly on his arm. Phil suddenly feels awkward, but then they emerge from the hanger into the sunlight, and the mood is broken._ _

__His grav-lift is small, and easily transportable. They secure a place on the local train, and journey quickly to the northeast. Conversation is kept easy and light between them, but Phil remains aware of his surroundings, and he knows the Black Widow and Hawkeye are doing the same._ _

__The people of Sokovia Prime have clearly suffered. Many buildings are old and in need of repair, and the train they are on is rickety. Even in the business section, which they pass through, there are several people with carefully resewn clothes, and hand-me-down dresses in styles two generations old._ _

__Even so, there are couples holding hands, sharing smiles, and children walking with their parents down the street. The sidewalks are clean, and vendor carts line the road, hawking wares and exchanging goods._ _

__Sokovia has passed through a turbulent time, but Phil sees evidence of recovery._ _

__“We are nearly there,” Miss Romanova murmurs. She stands as the train slows, and takes Phil’s elbow when he joins her. “Come along, brother,” she says to Hawkeye. “Do not forget the lift.”_ _

__He smiles and stands with them, and together they disembark. Here at the outskirts of the city, the traffic is lighter, and the poorer districts are in greater relief. Phil tries to ignore the need he can see, and promises he will do more for this planet when their current mission is completed. Perhaps he can put in a word or two with his parents, and generate some investment for the city._ _

__Still maintaining conversation, the three of them start to walk, pulling the grav-lift behind them. They leave the city boundary and keep walking, snow crunching underfoot as they pass into the forest that surrounds the city._ _

__It is a light wood, quiescent in the everlasting winter. Phil wonders how long ago it was terraformed._ _

__Conversation between them ceases once they are alone. Phil keeps his gaze darting about the scenery, alive for sensors, mines, vehicles, or other traps._ _

__“I see nothing,” Hawkeye says finally, after they have walked a kilometer at least._ _

__“Neither do I,” the Black Widow admits. “Perhaps they do not have much on-the-ground security, or perhaps those individuals have already been pulled back.”_ _

__“They were expecting a larger invasion force,” Phil reminds them. “They might have focused on orbital defense.”_ _

__Hawkeye shakes his head. “I do not like it,” he says. He has already unfolded and strung his bow, and is holding it at his side._ _

__“Neither do I,” Phil admits. “We are getting close. I am going to leave the grav-lift.”_ _

__The other two nod, and wait while he hides the lift in a small copse of trees. That done, he loosens his throwing knives in their sheath, and draws his pistol from the concealed holster at his hip. Once he has checked that it is primed and ready, he inclines his head. “And on we go.”_ _

__When they are close enough to see the compound, Hawkeye vanishes to scale a tree. He remains there for a long moment, and then descends. Phil tries not to wince at the state of his suit. They have bigger concerns than fabric now, but it feels a crime to have such a well tailored design rumpled._ _

__“I see people bringing boxes to transports,” Hawkeye informs them, barely breathless, “and they have a landing platform around the south side. There does not appear to be much activity in the east or the west.”_ _

__“Is there anywhere you can set up as sniper support?” Phil asks, peering through the trees._ _

__“No,” Hawkeye admits. “The nearest tree that can hold my weight is another another thirty feet in front of us. After that it is scrub brush, and then nothing. There is a fence we will have to cut through to reach the compound, and a section of open ground we will have to cover.” He shakes his head. “The facility looks large, but mostly abandoned.”_ _

__Phil thinks it over. “If we split up, we could cover more ground, but there is a very real chance that one of us could become lost. If we find the children, we will likely have to make our escape quickly. I think it would be best if we stick together.”_ _

__Miss Romanova nods. “I agree.”_ _

__Hawkeye concurs, and they set off together through the trees. They move more swiftly now, having some idea of the ground cover ahead of them, and Hawkeye takes the lead._ _

__The fence proves to be no issue, as Miss Romanova takes a knife from her thigh holster. Phil blinks and looks away, looking back to see her pressing it against the fence, where it passes through with ease._ _

__“Vibranium,” she explains quietly._ _

__Phil withholds his whistle for fear that the sound would travel, but remains impressed. Vibranium is one of the rarest metals in the galaxy._ _

__They creep together through the hole she cuts in the fence, and then dart one at a time across the open ground when Hawkeye tells them to. They catch their breaths together at the back of one of the base buildings. There are three that Phil can see — two square, one round, all together in a clustered compound that must be von Strucker’s research base._ _

__There is no sign of Baron von Strucker, but, then again, so far they have not run into anyone at all. Phil hopes that streak will continue._ _

__It lasts until they are inside one of the buildings, peering carefully around the corners. For all their skill, a door opens unexpectedly, and a pair of men wearing slate grey uniforms appear._ _

__They stare at the trio, surprised. Phil notes the strange badge on their chest, like an octopus, only different, and wonders why it looks familiar._ _

__One of the men makes a confused sound, and Phil nods Hawkeye and the Black Widow forward. “Take them alive, please.”_ _

__The men — they must be guards — step back, but it is too late. A moment later they are trussed like turkeys, sitting back to back in an empty office Phil has found._ _

__“Where are the children?” the Black Widow demands._ _

__The guard looks surprised. “Children? There are not — well, not any more. I mean—”_ _

__The Black Widow growls, and the man pales. Behind him, the other chimes in, “They are grown up, they are— Please, spare us!”_ _

__Phil blinks as the man’s voice lifts, gathering the distinct impression that he is no longer talking to Miss Romanova, and begins looking around. Before he can turn, however, there is a silver blur and then a muffled shout, and suddenly Hawkeye is being thrown clear across the hall._ _

__A strange, red mist has risen at the level of their eyes. There is a thump, and then a strangled groan from the direction in which Hawkeye was thrown._ _

__“Clint!” Miss Romanova shouts._ _

__There is a blur of movement beyond the door, down the hallway. Phil stops, halfway risen from his crouch next to the guard. He very much wants to run to Hawkeye’s side, but he cannot. A thought is taking root in his mind._ _

__“The genetic manipulation was a success,” Phil says slowly, turning back to the guard. The fear on the man’s face is clear, but it is not directed at _them._ “They were children, but they are older now, and—” There is a shout from the corridor, and then a crash. Phil pales. “They were never victims, were they?” _ _

__There is a footfall from behind him. Phil turns._ _

__“No,” says a woman. She is young, with strong features and long hair, brown except where it has been accented by a streak of red. Her eyes are dark, but cruel, and her voice is hard. She speaks with a distinct Sokovian accent. “We were volunteers.”_ _

__She raises her hands and red light surrounds them. Phil is dimly aware of the Black Widow rushing forward, but his vision is caught by the red light. It leaps towards him, and Phil screams._ _

__Down, down, _down._ He is falling. He is— _ _

__Phil stops, looking around. He is standing on a green lawn in front of brown, brick buildings. Students mingle, laughing amongst themselves, only— He feels a spike of pain through his skull, so intense it burns, and the picture changes. Suddenly everyone is screaming, students rushing by. The buildings are on fire. Someone is screaming in Phil’s ear._ _

__“Shoot, goddamn you!” General Ross shouts. “ _Shoot!_ ”_ _

__Phil looks up. The hand holding his gun is shaking, and his heart is pounding fast. A giant green _monster_ is tearing across the lawn, three times the height of a normal man, but still recognizably human. It is Banner, it shares his face, only it looks at Phil and there is no recognition in its eyes._ _

__“Shoot him, _shoot him!_ ” Ross shouts again. He reaches for Phil’s gun, lunging for it. “Put him down!”_ _

__Phil shakes his head, stepping back. “No!” There are too many people about, students rushing back and forth. Phil knows he could not hit Banner — _no, that is not Banner. That is some kind of_ Hulk — without injuring a civilian._ _

__“Oh, for— I will do it myself!” Ross growls, and pulls out his sidearm. He fires at the Hulk, hitting it once. The next two bullets ricochet, and a student screams and falls down, clutching his leg._ _

__The Hulk snorts, like a bull, and then looks up. It sees Ross. Phil is witness to the intelligence in its eyes, the anger — it looks like Banner, but it looks _nothing_ like Banner — and Phil recognizes the moment it decides to charge._ _

__Ross must see it too. He pales. “No.”_ _

__“General, run!” Phil shouts. He signals his men to turn, fall back and secure a position. “We must go, now!”_ _

__“No!” Ross shouts. He rips Phil’s gun from his hand and fires. The larger, heavier weapon does no discernable damage, but it clearly makes the Hulk angry._ _

__It — _he?_ — roars, a terrible sound. He begins charging towards them._ _

__Students scream, a horrible chorus. They run. Phil could turn and follow, but he does not. He reaches instead for General Ross, trying to drag him away from the Hulk’s path. It is not duty that makes him do it, but instinct. He cannot leave while someone else remains behind._ _

__“Run, General!” Phil shouts. He pushes him. The Hulk is coming. He can feel the pounding of his feet on the grass, hear his terrible roar. He will reach them and he will trample them. They are going to—_ _

__“No!” Phil gasps. He blinks wildly and looks around. The green grass of Cal’brian is gone, replaced by the grey steel of an industrial bunker. It takes him two blinks to focus — he is not a lieutenant of the Galactic Alliance anymore, he is on Sokovia Prime._ _

__Phil looks frantically around. The woman he remembers is still there. She stands a little away from him, in the abandoned office, and the two guards are still on the ground, staring at her fearfully._ _

__Her expression, though, when Phil looks at her, is confused. “You did not run,” she murmurs in that distinctive accent. “Why did you save him?”_ _

__Phil shakes his head. “What did you do to me, where is—?” He stops and looks about the room. Miss Romanova is gone. Hawkeye had been injured; Phil remembers him crying out._ _

__He leaves the woman and runs to the corridor. The Black Widow is there, fighting a blur._ _

__No, not a blur. It is a _man,_ Phil realizes. A young man dressed in a soft blue tunic. He moves faster than Phil had ever thought possible — faster than _is_ possible, for a human at least._ _

___Genetic manipulation,_ Phil thinks to himself in horror. He remembers the Hulk — Banner — growing, _changing,_ and turns back to the woman who has followed him into the corridor. “What did you _do?_ ”_ _

__She looks angry again. “What we had to,” she spits, and raises her hands again._ _

__Phil rushes forward and knocks her aside. He still has his gun in his hands, but could he shoot her? He does not want to. “We came to save you,” he tries._ _

__Her eyes are hard. “You came twenty years too late.”_ _

__The red mist rises from her clenched fists, and Phil hesitates. He does not shoot — he _can_ not shoot — his head still feels uncertain, memories too close to the surface. He sees the fleeing students of Cal’brian, hears their terrified cries. He cannot shoot this woman, she is barely older than they were, she is still a child— _ _

__“Oof!” the woman shouts, flung backward as the young man crashes into her. Phil looks and sees the Black Widow breathing hard. Her dress is torn, and her feet are planted — she has clearly just thrown the speedster clear across the room._ _

__Behind her is a huddled figure. Hawkeye! He shifts, groaning, and Phil feels a surge of relief. He is alive._ _

__On the floor, the woman wearing red grunts. She turns, pushing herself up on one elbow, and glares at Phil with eyes full of hate. “спалити”_ _

__Crimson mist bursts forth. It flies past Phil to envelop Hawkeye. He cries out, flopping back, eyes already going wide and filling with fear._ _

__“No!” Phil shouts, and dives for him. He cannot stop the mist, it is too late—_ _

__He grabs at Hawkeye’s hand. The red tendrils snake forward and snatch him, dragging him down, down, _down.__ _

__He lands on a wood floor, pitted and scarred. Holding his hand is a child, perhaps five, maybe six, with dirty-blonde hair and familiar, piercing eyes._ _

___Hawkeye._ _ _

__Ahead of them is a man and woman, and an older child huddled on the floor. The man is wearing stained, dirty clothes that had once been fine and the woman is wearing a day dress of low quality cloth. They are arguing._ _

__“Do not do this,” the woman is pleading. “We can find another way!”_ _

__“It is all their fault!” the man shouts. His voice is too loud and slurred; he is drunk, Phil realizes. “This is— Everything is their fault. We were doing fine, I was— They should never have let me go.”_ _

__“What are you going to do?” the woman screeches. “Yell at them? How will that—?”_ _

__The man pulls a pistol — old and dirty, but clearly serviceable — from his trousers._ _

__“No,” the woman whispers._ _

__“‘m gonna show them,” the man slurs. “’m gonna show them that what they did was wrong.”_ _

__“No, please,” the woman says. She grabs his arm, and Phil sucks in a breath when the man backhands her. She falls to the ground. Phil tries to move forward to help her, but he cannot. This is not his memory. It is Hawkeye’s._ _

__In front of him, the little boy shakes. His shoulders are tight, tense, and Phil can see tear tracks on his cheeks and bruises around his eyes. He holds himself stiffly, pain and dread and terror on his face._ _

__“’m gonna show them,” the man says again. He wobbles on his feet. “’m gonna show them that a Barton don’t take nothing lying down.”_ _

__The woman sobs, but the man reaches down and drags her up. “You’re gonna come with me,” he says, pulling her to his chest and then shoving her forward, out the door of the cottage, towards where a horse is waiting. “We’re gonna show them together.” He spits on the ground. “Fucking Coulsons.”_ _

__Phil feels his heart constrict in his chest. He looks down, towards Hawkeye, who is watching the scene with silent despair._ _

___Clint,_ Phil thinks. _Clint_ Barton._ _

__Suddenly, the scene changes. With a violent rip, the threadbare cottage is gone, and they are once again laying in the industrial bunker on the floor. Their hands are still clasped, and Hawkeye is blinking, confused, remembered fear and anger warring with uncertainty on his face, and Phil cannot bear to let go._ _

__Holding Hawkeye — _Mr. Barton_ — tight, he turns to find out what had released them, and sees the Black Widow holding her vibranium knife to the speedster’s throat._ _

__“Now lower your hands,” Miss Romanova orders, and, in front of her, the woman in red slowly does._ _

__She looks around, though, away from the Black Widow, and towards Phil._ _

__No — towards Mr. Barton._ _

__“He hated them,” the woman says, and she sounds confused. “And yet here you are, with a Coulson.”_ _

__Hawkeye stares at her, blinking, and then — still leaning on Phil’s arm — slowly stands. “I am,” he says, his voice rough. “I choose not to live in hate.”_ _

__The woman seems to sag. “How?” she whispers. “How do you simply _decide?_ ” _ _

__Miss Romanova’s eyes narrow. “It is not easy,” she tells the woman. She still has her hands around the speedster, who looks more angry than afraid, but she meets the woman’s gaze. “When we are accustomed to hate, when we depend on it, taking it away is like removing a crutch — but it _is_ a crutch. It is a lie, and we are stronger when we stand without it.”_ _

__The woman swallows, her eyes wide. “There is so much hate.”_ _

__“And they fed it,” Miss Romanova tells her. It is not a question. “They nurtured it, watched it flower, helped it grow. They used the hate to control you, to force you to accept the things they wanted you to do. At first, some part of you resisted, but they told you it was for the greater good.” Her voice hardens. “And in three years, or five, when you look up from the blood on your hands, when you cannot _see_ past the red in your ledger, you will know.” Her tone becomes cold, filled with old pain. “You will know that they _lied._ ”_ _

__The woman’s breath catches. She stares at the Black Widow._ _

__She lifts her hands, but the Black Widow holds her gaze and lowers her knife from the speedster’s throat._ _

__Phil watches, captivated, with Mr. Barton by his side, as the red mist floats gently up in front of Miss Romanova’s face. It hovers there, not quite touching her, and then evaporates away._ _

__“You are telling the truth,” the woman whispers. She staggers._ _

__The speedster, looking acutely confused, glances once at Miss Romanova before darting forward to catch the woman in red. He holds her, and she looks up at him._ _

__“Pietro,” she whispers. “They are telling the truth.”_ _

__He looks over his shoulder at them — first at Miss Romanova, and then towards Mr. Barton and Phil. His face quirks in confusion. “You really came to rescue us?”_ _

__Phil nods. “We did.”_ _

__His features twist. “Why?”_ _

__Mr. Barton steps forward without letting go of Phil’s hand. “Because it was the right thing to do.”_ _

__The speedster’s face crumples. He looks down to the woman in his arms. “Wanda. Sister,” he asks. “What do we do?”_ _

__She shakes her head, uncertainty evident, and straightens to stand on her feet. “I do not know.”_ _

__“Come with us,” Phil offers, stepping forward. “Let us fulfill our mission. Let us help.”_ _

__The woman in red swallows. “I do not know where we would go.”_ _

__Phil sees Miss Romanova hesitate. “There are places,” she says finally. She glances once at Phil, and then to Mr. Barton. “Places you can go where you will be safe. Where you can learn to live again.”_ _

__The young woman searches Miss Romanova’s expression, but finally nods. She turns towards her brother._ _

__He squeezes her hand. “Together,” he tells her._ _

__“Together,” she promises._ _

__As one, they turn towards the team. “We are with you,” they say._ _

__Phil nods, and takes the lead down the corridor. Mr. Barton lets go of his hand, but does not go far, moving to walk just behind Phil’s left shoulder and holding his bow at the ready._ _

__The facility is mostly empty. Occasionally they hear someone in the distance hurrying away, but they do not come upon a live person._ _

__“What will we do with this place?” the woman in red asks._ _

__Phil shakes his head. “Leave it. S.H.I.E.L.D. will arrive soon and search it.”_ _

__“No, they won’t,” a voice suddenly says._ _

__They all stop. Ahead of them is a large set of double doors, gleaming with the reflection of sunshine upon the snow. Before them, however, is a man. He is well dressed, with a top hat, and a monocle perched on his right cheek._ _

__“Baron von Strucker,” Phil says._ _

__He nods his head in mocking acknowledgement. “Mr. Phil Coulson, I see. I recognize your face from the Society papers. I do not know these two,” he says, nodding towards Mr. Barton and Miss Romanova, and then beyond them, “but these I do — Mr. Maximoff, Miss Maximoff. Whatever are you doing?”_ _

__The young man looks uncertain, but the woman stands tall. “You have lied to us, Baron von Strucker,” she accuses. “Not all the galaxy is content to watch us suffer. These brave people came in hopes of rescuing us.”_ _

__The Baron scoffs. “They came seeking fortune, or recognition for their brave deeds. S.H.I.E.L.D. is our enemy, as you well know. The entire Galactic Alliance is.”_ _

__The woman’s features harden. “I have read their minds, Baron, with their permission, too. You will trick us no longer. I know they speak the truth.” She raises her hands, and the red mist flickers to life again. “Shall I read yours?”_ _

__His expression twists. “Ungrateful _vermin,_ ” he spits. “Do you not rejoice in the powers I have given you?”_ _

__The woman — Miss Maximoff — swallows. She looks at Miss Romanova and Mr. Barton, and then back at the Baron. “Perhaps there are better ways to use them, than to spread fear and hate.”_ _

__He snarls, and grabs a pistol from his thigh holster, a large barrelled weapon that looks to pack a deadly punch. “Then I have no further use for you.”_ _

__He fires. Phil moves on instinct, turning to cover Mr. Barton with his body. The Mr. Maximoff turns as well, protecting his sister. Phil looks over his shoulder in vain for Natasha. She is not close enough, he will never be able to—_ _

__No, she is there, standing in front of them. Phil watches in shock as she lifts the vibranium blade and plants her feet. There is a mighty _crack_ and Miss Romanova staggers, cradling her arm. It looks broken. _ _

__But there, on the floor, is a crumpled bullet._ _

__The Baron von Strucker snarls. He lifts his arm to fire again, but before he can, two things happen nearly at once — first, he staggers, an arrow appearing in his left shoulder, and then he flies backwards, Mr. Maximoff standing suddenly in front of him._ _

__His fist is still raised, and his face is red. “то је зато што си нас лагао,” he spits. He kicks von Strucker in the side. “ово је због свега.”_ _

__The Baron coughs. The young man reels backwards to kick him again, but his sister staggers forward. She grabs his arm. “Не, мој брат,” she says, shaking her head. “Оставите га. Ми ћемо оставити.”_ _

__“You will go nowhere,” the Baron wheezes. He pulls a button from his jacket, and presses it. “Hail Hydra.”_ _

__Phil starts forward, but it is too late. The Baron bites down hard, and something in his jaw cracks. White foam fills his mouth, and his eyes roll back. His body shudders, and then lies still._ _

__He is dead._ _

__“What was that?” Miss Romanova demands, stepping forward. She is limping slightly, and still cradling her arm, but her voice is strong. “What did he press?”_ _

__Miss Maximoff stares at the body of Baron von Strucker in horror. “It is a self destruct,” she says quietly. She turns and looks over the complex, which is already beginning to vibrate. “We must run. Now!”_ _

__Her brother looks at her, pain in his eyes. “Wanda. The guards!”_ _

__“There is no time,” she insists._ _

__“There is for me,” he says, and turns. He bends down so that he touches the ground, braces himself, and then he is gone, running so fast he is nothing but a blur._ _

__Miss Maximoff stares at the place where he was for a long second, and then she turns. Her face is wet, but she ignores it, starting forward. “We must go,” she says. “Go!”_ _

__Phil hesitates. The young man… Mr. Maximoff…_ _

__“Go!” his sister shouts._ _

__They turn and run. The facility is truly vibrating now, and distant explosions can be heard. How huge is this complex, Phil wonders. How deep does it go?_ _

__They race through the double set of doors that lead outside to the snow and keep going. The open ground before them is empty, devoid of ships and personnel. Everyone but the guards inside must have already evacuated._ _

__Beyond the cleared area, the forest beckons. They run through long, frozen grass and bush, diving into the spaces between the trees. Phil cannot help but glance behind them. The facility is beginning to crumble, shaking apart from the inside out._ _

__Two figures stumble out of it, running as fast as they can for the scrub. There is still no sign of the young Mr. Maximoff. Phil holds out hope, breath catching in his chest—_ _

__Yes! There is he is, a speeding blur, racing out from the facility just as the last building begins to crash to the ground. He runs across the open area and then towards them, crashing through the trees with a blast of air behind him, deafening them all and driving Phil to his knees._ _

__“Pietro!” Miss Maximoff shouts, flinging herself towards him. He stops just in time to catch her, falling to his knees as he throws his arms around her shoulders._ _

__“Wanda!” he cries. His voice is jubilant, proud. “I did it! I got the guards, and the files!”_ _

__She leans back and smacks him across the face, and then hugs him tight again. “You idiot! I do not care about the files! I care about my brother!”_ _

__He laughs and buries his face in her hair. “И Ам Сорри моја сестра,” he says. “Volim te.”_ _

__“Volim i ja tebe,” she says back._ _

__They hug each other tight, then stand and step back. “So,” Miss Maximoff says, turning towards Miss Romanova. “You said you had a place for us?”_ _

__She smiles, and then turns instead towards Phil. “I do not,” she clarifies, “but I believe Mr. Coulson does.”_ _

__

__*_ _

__

__“They are impressive, I will give you that,” Director Fury says, as he and Phil watch the twins practice their abilities inside the large, padded S.H.I.E.L.D. gym aboard _The Helicarrier_. “I also agree they could use more training, but _here?_ Truly?” He shakes his head. “From what you said, they hated us until three days ago.”_ _

__Phil shrugs. Miss and Mr. Maximoff had been understandably unsure when Phil had first extolled S.H.I.E.L.D.’s virtue, but the time it had taken _The Helicarrier_ to transport them from Sokovia Prime — with _The Lady Lola_ held securely in its docking bay — had given Phil a chance to talk them around. _ _

__“They hated Tony Stark, primarily, and Stark Industries,” Phil clarifies. He, together with Miss Romanova and Mr. Barton, had spoken with the twins, and had gotten a summary of their chaotic history. Apparently they had been left for dead within the crater of their former apartment, staring at a missile with _Stark Industries_ painted on the side of it for several days. The experience had shaken them to the core, and had made them vulnerable when von Strucker and his allies had come along. “S.H.I.E.L.D. they knew only from von Strucker’s lectures, and the fact that Tony Stark does consultant work here from time to time.”_ _

__Nick snorts. “I blame you for that, my friend. It was you who first approached him, after the Iron Man debacle.”_ _

__Phil rolls his eyes. “I did so on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s behalf, and at your request, if you remember.”_ _

__“Yes, but I did not want you to do so good a job,” Nick retorts._ _

__“Do you wish me to apologize for being competent?” Phil asks._ _

__Nick sighs and raises a hand to rub the bridge of his nose. “No, and while we are on the subject…” He trails off._ _

__Phil knows what he means. “Hydra.”_ _

__Nick nods. “Yes.”_ _

__Phil shakes his head. “I _knew_ the octopus symbol on the guard’s uniform was familiar, but I never thought—”_ _

__Nick cuts him off. “Of course you did not. No one did. If von Strucker had not said something, we would _still_ be in the dark.”_ _

__“I wonder if that was his plan,” Phil says with a frown. “To send us scurrying around, doubting ourselves.”_ _

__“It may have been, which is why I want to keep the investigation into this quiet,” Nick instructs. “No one but you, Mr. Barton, Miss Romanova, and the twins heard him, correct?”_ _

__“That is correct,” Phil confirms. “And we have not spoken of it to anyone, I can assure you.”_ _

__“Good,” Nick grunts. He watches the Maximoff twins for a moment. “How well do you trust your new pet assassins?”_ _

__Phil frowns. “They are not my anything, but I _do_ trust them, as odd as you may find that.”_ _

__Nick barks a laugh. “I do not find it strange at all, which is perhaps the reassuring part of it. You have always been a man to inspire intense loyalty, Mr. Coulson, and you have been following these two for some time. It is not a surprise to me that they have taken to you.”_ _

__Phil finds himself colouring. “I have no possible idea what you mean.”_ _

__Nick grins. “I know you do not, but no matter. I will allow them to explain.”_ _

__Phil purses his lips, but lets it go. Instead, he stares at his friend. “What do you need me to do?”_ _

__Nick sighs. “As much as it pains me, I need you to _not_ take a position at S.H.I.E.L.D. at this time. I will have my hands full here. Training the Maximoff twins is going to take time, even though I have a good idea where I can use them. I am considering a team of likewise exceptional individuals, and I think they will fit in nicely.”_ _

__Phil nods. “I agree.”_ _

__“That means that I need _you_ to keep doing what you are doing. Travel the galaxy, right wrongs, but keep your eyes open.” Nick turns to clap Phil about the shoulders. “You are my one good eye, my friend. I need you to watch for things from a different perspective. Let me know when I am missing something crucial to our success.”_ _

__Phil meets his gaze. “You want me to go looking for Hydra.”_ _

__“No, I want you to assure me that they do not exist,” Nick tells him. “I want to know that they died with the Red Skull and Steve Rogers, I want to know that they are drifting in hyperspace, lost and unattainable for eternity.” His hand on Phil’s shoulder squeezes. “I want that, but I do not think I shall get it.”_ _

__Phil clasps his hand on Nick’s shoulder in turn. “I will do my best to prove you wrong, my friend.”_ _

__“Thank you,” Nick says._ _

__They turn together to watch the twins again. Miss Maximoff raises her hands, and several pieces of gym equipment float off the floor. Buoyed by red energy, the weights and ropes launch themselves at Pietro Maximoff, who laughs, and avoids them with ease._ _

__Phil cannot help but smile. “I think that they will do well here,” he says. Only S.H.I.E.L.D. has the power to decriminalize their genetic manipulation, and if Nick is so impressed with them that he wants them to stay, then he has faith that they can make a home here, as well as prove useful to the cause._ _

__Nick grins. “I hope so, especially once I give them a team.” He turns to Phil with a grin. “Do you remember the name Bruce Banner, by any chance?”_ _

__

__*_ _

__

__“So,” Mr. Barton says suddenly, surprising Phil from his check on the engine systems. “Everything is back to normal now, and you do not need me any longer?”_ _

__Phil turns to see Mr. Barton grinning, nodding his head towards Phil in _The Lady Lola_ ’s piloting seat._ _

__Phil smiles and does not bother to ask how Mr. Barton has boarded his ship. “I got on very well by myself for years, Mr. Barton. I am perfectly capable of flying her alone.”_ _

__Barton’s smile dims a little, and Phil feels an ache deep inside his chest._ _

__“Of course,” he continues, more hesitant now, “just because I _can_ do something, does not mean I _wish_ to.”_ _

__Barton’s breath catches. He stares at Phil. “What are you saying?”_ _

__Phil braces himself. “I am inviting you to come with me. You and Miss Romanova, both.” He hurries on. “I know that you have your own lives, and your own goals, and I would not want to stand in the way of that. You have a moral code that I respect and admire. I wish to work with that. I want to help you learn why you were tricked into assassinating two Key Holders. I fear — I very much fear — that it is linked in some way to what we discovered on Sokovia Prime.”_ _

__Barton stares at him, his gaze piercing. “Do you want us along for our assistance, or our skills?”_ _

__Phil finds himself helpless in the power of that gaze. “I want you along because I want to spend more time with you,” he admits. “I wish to get to know you better. I wish to be present in your life.”_ _

__Barton swallows. His fingers are tight around the doorway of the forward section, the tips of them white with strain. “Even though I am who I am?” he croaks. “Even though I am a Barton?_ _

__Phil stares into his eyes, soaking up the fact that this man is here with him, on this ship, even though he has known who Phil was this entire time._ _

__“Absolutely,” Phil breathes. “If you consent, even though I am a Coulson.”_ _

__“I do,” Barton whispers, letting go of the doorway. He tumbles forward. “I do, I want—” He reaches._ _

__Phil stands to catch him. “I do as well,” he confesses. He holds Barton tight, feeling the press of his muscles, the heat of his skin. Phil shakily lifts a hand and presses it to Barton’s face, feeling the softness of his cheek. “I _want._ ”_ _

__Barton sucks in a breath, his eyes meeting Phil’s. His pupils are blown, dark, and he stares at Phil as if he could devour him with his eyes. “Please,” he whispers._ _

__Phil bends his head down, breathing in the scent of him, and then kisses him. It is only a light brushing of their lips, but it sends a lightening strike down his spine._ _

__“Finally,” Miss Romanova says dryly._ _

__Phil rocks back. Barton moves to steps away, but Phil’s arms automatically tighten. He blushes then, and drops his arms to the side, but Barton reaches out and tangles their fingers together._ _

__“Yes?” Barton asks, his voice breathless and catching. “Did you want something, sister of my soul?”_ _

__Miss Romanova chuckles. She leans forward, around the doorway, and extends her hand to Phil. He takes it, and raises it to his lips without thinking._ _

__“I do, actually,” she says. “I would like Mr. Coulson to call me Natasha.” She smiles, her eyes twinkling. “After all, it seems very likely he is to become my brother-in-law.”_ _

__Barton — or perhaps Clint — blushes, his cheeks going fully red. He does not object, however._ _

__“Natasha,” Phil agrees, squeezing her fingers carefully. “I would be honoured. Please, call me Phil.”_ _

__“Phil,” she says carefully. She smiles again, more real, somehow. “It suits you.”_ _

__He bows over her hand, then releases it. She gives them both a smile before stepping back._ _

__“I think I shall take the settee,” she announces. “I will not be joining you always, I have my own contracts to pursue, but from time to time I will visit. I will visit now, and I think we should start by making a journey to the Orveyen sector. I understand that they have a problem with a revolutionary force, well supplied with weapons, and sometimes displaying a curious crest.” She looks to Phil. “We should look into it.”_ _

__He nods, her meaning clear. “Very well. Mr. Barton?” he asks, turning to Clint. “Would you take us out?”_ _

__“We will have to stop and pick up more supplies, you know,” Clint says with a smile, stepping forward to take his place in the pilot’s seat. “There is no way Mr. Coulson’s wardrobe is of sufficient quality to keep him in the types of missions we are sure to find ourselves mixed up in.” He looks at Phil. “I did not even see a double-breasted day suit. Really, what _have_ you been doing with yourself out here?”_ _

__Phil chuckles, sliding into the co-pilot’s chair. “I said I did not need a valet, though I think I will not refuse your advise, if you choose to offer it.” He gives Clint a smile. “Very well, we may visit my tailor on Seteri Prime later. He will be thrilled to learn that someone with taste has appeared on board.”_ _

__Natasha grins and disappears, returning a moment later with two bags she unceremoniously drops in the galley. “We should travel to the Kytaren Sector after. There is no way there are enough weapons on board to keep all of us in good standing.”_ _

__“I have my service pistol,” Phil defends, unable to stop his smile._ _

__Natasha rolls her eyes. “Yes, and a rather pitiful knife collection.”_ _

__“You wound him,” Clint declares. He shoots Phil a grin. “After all, what can compare to vibranium?”_ _

__“We will keep our eyes open,” Natasha soothes._ _

__“Very well, first stop: the Oreyen Sector,” Phil decides. “We shall see where we end up from there.”_ _

__“That sounds like a plan,” Clint agrees, his hand poised over the controls._ _

__“Very good, then,” Phil says. He shares a look with Clint, then with Natasha. At their nods, he looks back to the controls with a small smile. “Take us out.”_ _

__

__

__~ The End._ _


End file.
